


Fired, Rehired

by ChaoticMind (ChloeCasey), Chloe Casey (ChloeCasey)



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But our favorite serpent is, Cannibalism, Gore, Hell is an awful place of death and chaos and power struggles, M/M, Mafia and gang wars are very relevant, Mischief is afoot, Niffty is a poor lost soul and is trying her best, Of course there will be angst as is natural with demonic souls festering in Hell, The Radio Demon Isn’t An Overlord, These fools getting into trouble, extreme violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 333,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21966079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeCasey/pseuds/ChaoticMind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeCasey/pseuds/Chloe%20Casey
Summary: All Alastor wants to do is spend his eternal afterlife entertaining the masses. He’s happy being alone, talking into the microphone of his radio station, taking calls from his fans, and playing the music at the end of the day. It’s simple, it’s calm, and for him, he could want nothing more.Unfortunately, he lives in Hell, and, in Hell’s nature of being a place of eternal suffering, nothing ever goes how he wants it to.
Relationships: Alastor & Niffty (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), Husk & Niffty (Hazbin Hotel), Valentino/Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 266





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, from us to you! We hope you enjoy this new passion project of ours! No worries, “The Only Option” isn’t going anywhere, but for now, we’re swan-diving right into Hell itself. We have plans for this fic, and we hope that it doesn’t disappoint!

**Hell, 1961**

“... _and it’s getting around to that time of the day, folks! This closing special comes from the great King Oliver himself. Such a pleasure having an authentic record, isn’t it_?” The staticky, yet somehow smooth voice, filters through the speakers of a newly installed radio, the steady beat of drums, trumpets, and accompanying brass humming just under the host’s voice. “ _It's been a quiet day in Hell - as quiet as it can be, at least! Hahah! A few small muggings here and there, a torch running about in midtown catching eyes as well as coattails, quite a relaxing evening, if I may say so myself. I'll let King Oliver show you out for the evening, but remember folks: keep that smile 'till the morning. You're never fully dressed without one._ ”

The music continues playing for a few minutes longer, gentle and soothing jazz, and the owner of the radio swings their tail to the beat. 

Somewhere else in Hell, in a rather modest home toward the outskirts of the City, a simple demon dressed in a crimson pinstripe suit clicks off his personal microphone and lets the music ease its way to a finish. Alastor goes through the well practiced motions of closing shop for the night - as much as he hated having to turn off the music, his equipment needed rest - and lets himself stretch, humming at the satisfying pops from his back and shoulders. Still humming, though now a tune that had played earlier in the day, he turns off the lights and walks through his living room and into his kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee.

He takes a moment to clear his throat, silencing the humming for a moment, taking the time to scoop up a big spoonful of the coffee grounds before dumping it into a coffee mug, then proceeding to then fill up a kettle with water. He places the kettle atop the stove, turning on the flame, and lets himself clear his throat again; as much as he loved talking, sometimes it had a tendency to grate on his throat, and it got annoying. He leans against the nearby countertop, eyes flicking this way and that, finger idly tapping away on his elbow. Should he go out to eat tonight? Or should he just stay home and eat the rest of what he had left in the fridge? He didn’t really feel like eating re-heated gumbo right out of the pot again, but he didn’t really feel like going out and walking around the streets to find something to eat either. Though his cabinets were becoming a bit bare; he would need to go shopping soon.

He sighs softly to himself, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Shopping was something he usually enjoyed but it had recently become more of a chore. The local grocers had been run out by one of the local, small time gangs, meaning his supply of spices had been cut off. He had to actually walk into the City to find anything worthwhile, and the prices in most of the stores were enough to make him either threaten the tellers or get them laughing long enough for him to trick their count into a more reasonable number. Not to mention the number of knives he had to dodge going to and from the store itself....

The kettle whistles and he straightens, pulling it from the stove and pouring the water into his oversized mug. Knives being thrown at his face are fun and all, but they get dull after a while. He sets the kettle aside, makes sure the stove is off, and leans back against the counter to sip at his coffee. His shoulders relax ever so slightly. He could wait another day before getting fresh food. The gumbo would be enough for tonight. He takes another sip, slow, letting the scalding heat of the brew wash over his tongue, against his aching, burning throat, a tenseness in his spine that he hadn’t realized was there slowly relaxing. It was hard to actually achieve a calm state of mind in Hell, especially for himself, but he always appreciated it when it did come around; it was wonders for his nerves, for his mind, like dipping into a cold pond on a hot day. He never got tired of it.

He feels a distant rumble, just beneath the soles of his shoes, enough to make the coffee in his mug ripple. This is quickly followed by the window of his kitchen, a little bit above and to the right of his head, rattling in it’s frame, just before cracking, small hairline fractures that give the impression of a spider’s web. Then screaming, far off in the distance, rings mutely through the kitchen.

Alastor blinks, slowly turning to his window and tilting his head at the crack. The rumbling grows until he can make out individual pulses of what he could only describe as _nonmetallic weaponry_ firing off in the distance. Over the roof of the house across from his own, a distant explosion brightens the sky, an echoing _boom_ right behind it, and all the glass, porcelain, silverware, and non-bolted appliances join in the tumultuous shaking of the house. Alastor takes another sip from his mug and watches the fireworks subside. He lets his eyes slide toward the direction of his radio station, and he can’t help but hum in thought. Sure, he would be overtime if he did it, but at the same time, it _was_ his duty to announce the latest news in Hell, wasn’t it? 

A third explosion, further off in the distance, more to the right of his current placement in his kitchen, and the rumbling is almost enough to make the coffee spill over the rim of his mug. He quickly moves his mug over the sink, narrowly saving his suit from being stained. His eyes flick between the coffee and the unfurling scene in front of him. A metal blimp crests the horizon of taller buildings further away, and he sets his coffee calmly inside the sink, grabbing a towel and wiping the coffee from his palms. "Well!" He tosses his hands up, then sets the towel on his shoulder and spins on his heel, marching toward his set. "Always more coffee in Hell, but fresh news only comes once!" He moves to start fiddling with the wires, pressing buttons, flipping the switches, everything he needs to do before walking around to where his standing mic stood, gripping onto the thin black pole with a practiced ease, wheeling it off to the side so he can stare through the window, up at the massive warship hovering above the smoking streets where the explosions had struck. There was the faint red flicker of the “ON AIR” sign lighting up above the radio’s machinery, and he cleared his throat, just before starting to speak.

“ _Pardon my sudden return, ladies and gentlemen, but it seems that we have some breaking news on our hands! The great mechanical powerhouse known by all as ‘Sir Pentious’ has made quite the sudden appearance! I’m sure you can see him folks, from the streets to the windows, all you have to do is crane your necks up and you’ll see that blimp, be it in the distance or right over your heads!_ ”

Another explosion goes off somewhere closer to his house and he can't help the splitting grin that spreads across his face as the entire house shook, his equipment trembling and his monocle sliding sideways. " _Oh, spectacular performance, as usual! The southeast end of the pentagram certainly is an interesting choice for the industrial titan, though I do imagine clearing out enough space would do well for another factory of his. Or maybe he's simply bored! Couldn't blame the man; if I had as many toys as he did, I'd definitely make a ruckus whenever_ I _got bored_!" A laugh track plays. " _Truly, though, remarkable use of his prowess, brilliant aim, you could almost call his technique_ systematic." He laughs at his own jokes and waves a hand." _Okay, okay, that's quite enough of me. Let's go to the streets and get a feel for the crowd now, hmm_?" He unlatches the window and throws it open, testing the wind before pulling his microphone out to capture the sounds of screams which seemed to only get louder and louder as time went on.

From this new angle, his head peeking out of the windowsill entirely, he could now see something entirely new; bright lights, at least a dozen, all sparking and lighting up amidst the darkened skies of Hell’s landscape, taking off from the blimp’s mass and all splitting off in random directions, arcs of flame that left behind trails of bright white smoke. He lets himself squint, his heart picking up in it’s pace when he sees one of those lights moving right towards his street, moving at a speed that he can never recall seeing anywhere else in Hell before. It was distant, but then, as it got closer and closer, the spark became a shape, and the shape became an image; a demon, taking on the form of a gargoyle, with what looked to be a large, bulky mechanism strapped to their back, propelling them through the air via two bright blue tongues of flame. Alastor watches as the demon, so close now he can _feel_ the heat from the roaring pyre contained within that mysterious metal, suddenly veers sharply to the right, and crashes right through the window of his next door neighbor. His screams begin to fill the air.

Alastor’s grin sharpens and he feels a sort of bittersweet satisfaction in the screams. He absolutely _hated_ his neighbor for a variety of reasons, so he was going to miss daydreaming of the day he got around to killing the man himself. “ _Would you look at that, listeners! It appears as if Sir Pentious is giving us quite a spectacular display of some of his newest inventions! I’m no tech expert, but I do believe what I just saw was a personal_ flying _device. Almost looked like a backpack with engines on the sides, and sleek too._ ” The screams from his neighbor pick up, and he chuckles, pulling his microphone back an inch. “ _My, oh, my! Certainly seems like_ someone _has found themselves behind the eight ball on this fine evening. I know a few of my neighbors have been on the take recently_.” He leans away from the mic to shout. “ _Not to be a Monday morning quarterback, but bribes won’t help you, Jerome!_ ” He leans back into his microphone, chuckling darkly. “ _Oh, he deserves all of this and more. I can only imagine anyone targeted today angered the big guy in the sky something fierce, and you know what I say about that, don’t you, dear listeners? Never bite off more than you can chew_.”

There is a bright, _bright_ flash through the broken window of the house, accompanied by an electrical crackle and the sound of Jerome’s screaming increasing in its intensity, only dying down once the light fades entirely. Thanks to the angle of the window, he couldn’t quite see what happened next, but soon he heard the sound of a door being ripped off its hinges, followed by incoherent sobbing and screaming. Finally, the gargoyle passes overhead, the flames continuing to roar from the engine of that strange device, looking no worse for wear, dragging a bright, _crackling_ net in their claws, a net that contained a sobbing, shaking hellhound, bloodied, appearing to be missing a hand, screaming out for help as he is carried off towards the blimp in the distance.

“ _Ooh, electric nets. Nice touch_.” He watches the gargoyle and their passenger fly by for a moment longer, wanting to get more screams on record. He sees a few other flying demons with similar cargos, notes their general direction, and pulls back inside the recording studio, shutting the window for better broadcasting quality. “ _It appears as if Sir Pentious’s henchmen are rounding up specific individuals in the southeast end, though for what purpose remains to be seen. If you’re still listening to this broadcast: congratulations! Feel free to walk around the streets; I’m sure this business has_ nothing _to do with you_.”

After a minute or so, all of the flames produced by the strange backpack engines flicker out of sight, and for a moment, the blimp simply remains there, solid and unmoving, spitting in the face of gravity as it does so thanks to it’s whirling propellers, no more bombs being dropped, the screaming already starting to die out. It was almost enough to start boring him, already feeling his interest ever so slightly start to creep away from his mind, slightly considering signing off and wrapping things up so he could get back to relaxing. And then he feels his veins suddenly tremble, his blood flaring with a bubbling heat, and the force of it all is enough to make him tremble. His eyes narrow at the window, at the sight of the blimp in an effort to get so much as a _peek_ , only to be met with nothing more than the glint of the metal along its surface. He could feel him, and his heart beat began to rise, not out of fear or anticipation, but because of the way the invisible scale of power completely _plummeted_. Pentious himself had entered the scene, had stepped in to give his grand finale, and yet didn’t even bother to come down from his flying fortress to do so. He keeps his eyes glued to the window, just to see what would happen.

There’s a small, very small, _incredibly_ small line of light, stretching from an unknown component of the blimp towards the ground below, and then, in the blink of an eye, the window in front of him _shatters_ as a massive explosion tears across the cityscape in one straight line, sending four plumes of flame and blackened smoke _high_ into the air. The screams began anew.

“ _Oh my golly_ !” He throws an arm over his face and twists his body over the microphone to protect it from the debris, feeling a few shards of glass hit his suit and one cutting across the side of his neck. In an instant, he twists back around to look out the window, eyes widening at the carnage, at the pure devastation just a short walk away from him house. A track of applause plays and he laughs before he can register it, then quickly recalls himself. “ _Oh, incredible performance! Standing ovation! Oh, such an incredible debut of such_ power!” He throws an arm out above him, reveling in the sounds of destruction and shaking glass from his hair as his head bobs. “ _It’s rather rare that Sir Pentious provides such a magnificent show, but when he does, boy does he deliver! That, my listeners, was one of his more diabolical instruments, and one shrouded in mystery and intrigue. A highly focused laser weapon, rumored to only work in the hands of the Overlord himself, though the only part of it to ever be seen is that thin, nigh invisible beam of light. Incredibly easy to miss, and incredibly difficult to avoid_.” He cranes his neck to get a better view of the City. Smoke fills the sky in waves, starting to block out some of the skyscrapers further in the distance. " _There is much speculation on the device in question, one of which being, Is it a device at all? Might seem odd, dear listeners, but Sir Pentious certainly has been gaining quite a few advances over the years that professionals believe to be founded in some sort of magic. What you all just saw, heard, and felt could very well be his own powers at play!_ ”

He can’t help but let out a chuckle, dark, composed, and so very fitting to his throat. “ _Doesn’t it just make one’s blood chill?_ ”

He watches, as, amongst what little he can see of the smoke, the massive form of the airship, simply...fading from view, until he couldn’t even see it at all. It was then, and only then, that the humming, rushing _buzz_ that was making Alastor’s claws itch and his teeth tingle finally fades away, and his heart finally begins to calm from it’s pounding rampage in his chest. Alastor’s eyes narrow on the receding airship, glad for the echoing screams that fill the dead air of the show. That power... He shakes his head, clearing himself of the majority of that boiling rush of distant magic. He pulls back from the window, glass shifting and crunching underfoot. “ _Well, I do believe that concludes all the fun for this evening! I’m certain we’ll have more news in the morning regarding this little incident, and hopefully a few callers will have some more on the ground information for us. But until then, this is your host, signing off. Stay tuned for more_ Morning Smiles _bright and early tomorrow at seven A.M. sharp_.”

He puts down the microphone, walks over to the radio machinery, and promptly flips the switch to turn off the broadcast, taking a moment to breathe in and let out a heaving sigh. Suddenly he didn’t really feel like drinking coffee at all. He takes a moment to glance down at the shards of glass that littered the floor, huffing for a moment before turning to walk out of the room and toward a closet for a broom. “Of course I forget about the windows, it’s _always_ the windows...” None of the buildings on the outskirts of the City had been built to withstand the sudden, pressurized winds and tremors constantly felt in center city, where the vast majority of turf wars intersected. He had tried to make a habit of reinforcing the windows with magic, but, well... He brushes the glass into a neat pile, eyes narrowing at little splinters that caught in the cracks of the wooden floorboards. Even someone as brilliant as himself could forget to cast a charm or two. He remembers the kitchen window and stops sweeping, imagining the glass on the counter, in the sink, in the drain, on the ground, possible on the kitchen table. He presses his lips together and closes his eyes, shaking his head. “One of these days. _One_ of these days, I swear...”

He moves to dump what he can of the broken glass into the trash bin, careful to not actually move to grab at anything while he stood in the kitchen; he didn’t feel like dealing with splinters. He sighs after a moment as he puts down the broom, leaving it against the wall, crossing his arms as he tries to think. There were a lot of areas where those bombs hit, and he was sure that anyone within range of that last attack would be nothing but ashes, so there was no point in salvaging anything there. He _would_ check Jerome’s home, but he was certain the bastard had lived alone. So either he treks toward the smog of burning flames and smoke to try and look for what he needed, out of sheer hopes that there was anything _left_ , or he scouts out the places where those bombs met their target and risk being seen. He trills his fingers against his arm, then moves over to the fridge, opening it and scanning over the empty racks and singular pot. "Hmm..." He closes it, not bothering to look in the freezer. He needs more food. There’s no question about it. And now would be the best time to scavenge... Others would be out there with the same thoughts in mind. It'd be difficult to not be seen already. Maybe it would be best to look like he was supposed to be there. Maybe a crowd would be better camouflage than slinking in the shadows. His eyes trail to his coat and his cane, and thanks to the broken remains of the kitchen window, the wind, scorching hot, blew in nothing more than the scent of flames, ash, and, faintly, blood. He couldn’t help but feel his stomach growl, and he winces, moving to grab his coat and yanking it over his shoulders. To Hell with it. He needed to get more food, and he needed to get it now. Stealth or no stealth, he didn’t care. He’d decide when he’d reach the place he needed to go. All he needed to do was follow the scent.

He didn't bother with locking the door, seeing as all the windows were blown out, though he was sure the odd sigils here and there would keep out intruders. He takes a deep breath, flexing his fingers and turning left on the road, walking as if he was on the way to the grocery store. A few demons huddle, shaking, between houses, evidently caught in their own trips outside. He walks by them without giving them a second glance, humming merrily to distract himself from his stomach rumbling yet again. His cane clacks in time with a little ditty that swirls around in his mind, and as it does, he keeps his eyes peeled, ears swiveling this way and that, trying to hear the sounds of moving rubble, of muffled crying buried beneath debris, anything that might give him a clue and a lead as to where to go. All he could see was the scattered streets, cracked pavement, burning bricks, sooty individuals among the cleanly untouched all moving about in waves, trying to find goods they can pillage or friends that might still be alive. He passes them, finding the scene a bit too populated, and moves to the next block, coming across more broken buildings. A few demons fight over a television on the steps of a ramshackle house, the previous owner nowhere near if the lack of blood is anything to go by. Those flying demons took those victims somewhere... He recalls the trajectory and glances at the houses. He was on track with them, last he saw at least.

He takes a moment to sniff the air, subtly, eyes snapping over toward a more hidden, tucked away house that was out of relative sight of most of the other buildings. The smell of blood comes from it, and judging by what he could tell of the missing door and the bloody shoe prints leading _into_ the doorway, quite a bit of it. It was somewhat lost among the general chaos, but now? It was enough to make Alastor’s simple grin slowly grow. He turns into their little path, taking care to step around the footprints and droplets of blood as he nears the doorway. He knocks on the doorframe - _Shave and a Haircut_ , per usual, nothing could change that - and steps inside the building onto tiled flooring. Forties style home, cozy with a side of blood smears and shattered glass. "Hello?" He pitches his voice with carefully crafted concern and takes another step in. "I saw the door and the blood, and thought I'd check in."

There was nothing for a moment, before the sound of a very pained wheeze, followed by a cough, and then a response, comes from a doorway where the footprints lead into. “I...In here...”

Alastor walks further in, freely, imitating urgency, and enters the room, letting his eyes widen in faux shock at the cowering demon. "That's a lot of blood." He wasn't lying with that one. The smell is almost overpowering, and a large pool of crimson surrounds the poor demon, who was slumped against the opposite wall holding a large gash that ran the full width of their stomach. He was a little surprised the demon had lasted so long. Maybe it looked worse than it actually was. He walks toward them.

The little creature looks akin to a goat, were it not for the sharp teeth and clawed hands, and as they lift their head towards Alastor, they tense and shakily hold up a knife, voice a deep, heavy wheeze. “H..Hold on...Why did you come in here? Who are you...with?”

"It may come as a surprise, but some of us down here know first aid." Alastor stops walking, letting his smile grows smaller and his brows draw together. "And who am I with? You think I work for a gang?" He laughs and shakes his head. "You'd know if I worked for a gang. Most have weapons, and don't play with their prey."

The goat seems to relax for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh as he drops the knife. “Oh...Thank God...I..I got jumped by one of those flying freaks.” He lifts his arm aside to show off the grizzly wound lining his stomach. “Came at me with...some kind of...sword, I think.”

"Sword, you say?" He walks closer, moving to the side he had dropped the knife near and kneeling next to him, keeping his hands in plain view on his knees. "You don't see swords very often in Hell these days. But then again we're talking about a Victorian here." He hums lightly. "Okay, I'll give you a few options on what we can do, yeah?"

“A-Alright...Name them.” The goat stares at him, obviously shaken and in pain, but still trying to keep a straight face.

"Worst first. I could kill you-" He holds up his hands as the goat tenses. "So that your body triggers it's regeneration. This isn't the Purge, and I'm sure I could find a way that won't hurt. Much."

“...And the other options?”

"I can find something made of iron, heat it on your gas stove, and cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding." Alastor nods at the look on his face. "Or I could find as much cloth as I can to put pressure on the wound and attempt to sew you back together, but if there's internal bleeding, well... I'm not a surgeon. You'll die slower and more painfully." He tilts his head. "What should I do?"

The goat’s expression becomes strained, nervous, his fingers trembling softly. He bites his lip, softly, before speaking. “You...If we go with the...killing thing...What will you do?”

"Hmm." He raises a brow. "Easiest way would be to put that knife in the back of your head, at the base of your cranium. Severs the brain stem and causes immediate death. You'd never know it happened."

The goat looks down towards the knife, slowly lifting it into his hand. He then looks toward Alastor. “..You..This isn’t a trick, right? You aren’t gonna kill me and then I’ll wake up in a dungeon or some shit, right?”

"A dungeon?" He couldn't help but snicker at that. "Please, if I could afford that, then I wouldn't be anywhere near these parts. I'll kill you and leave you here, maybe clean up the front porch so other people don't get any ideas. Turn the kitchen light on, and so forth."

"How...” He frowns, as if conflicted. “How do I know I can trust your word?”

Alastor sighs softly, grin stretching in annoyance. The smell of blood wafts up to him again and he has to work to not simply shred the demon's throat to ribbons. "We can make it a deal if that makes you more comfortable." He holds his hand out. "I'll kill you, leave you here, and make the house look more presentable. In return, you..." He rolls his eyes, faking a search for words. "...leave me alone afterwards? I'm a busy man and this is taking a long time as is."

“...Right...” The demon lets out a sigh. “You know what, maybe it’s the blood loss, but just go ahead and kill me. You’re already doing me a favor anyway...Not gonna be the dick that’s gonna say no to a demon that’s actually a good person.”

"Great!" He puts his hand down, smile brighter now that things are moving along. "The knife, then?"

He silently hands it over, doing his best to turn around so that the back of his head was facing him. “...Go nuts.”

Alastor lets his smile widen further at that, stopping him pretty quickly and simply pushing his head down. He lines the knife tip to the back of the neck, then pulls back. "On three. One... Two-" He jerks his arm forward, making a clean cut right between the skull and vertebra and into the cranial cavity. The demon’s body jerks once, a massive, seizing tremble, and a faint gurgling is heard before he just goes completely limp. His arms falls to the floor and his head hangs downwards. "Gods above and below that took so long." Alastor exhales, standing and leaving the knife inside the demon. "Now, let's see what _other_ knives you have."

He turns and easily walks toward the kitchen, first closing the front door and then moving to pull open each and every drawer available to him. There are plain utensils, which was probably where the man got the knife in the first place, there are regular kitchen supplies such as measuring spoons, and when he opens the cabinet, he is greeted with the sight of at least three containers of spice, though “spice” is a loose term. It was simply that of pepper, salt, and paprika, in small glass tubes. "Hmm." He puts a hand on his hip. "Stuck with a bachelor, aren't I?" He sighs and walks to what looks like a simple closet. "Any tools....?"

There was a simple broom, a bucket, a mop, a hammer and nails, nothing he really needed, and for a moment, he was convinced that there wouldn’t be anything here for him to really scavenge, save for the body, only until a glint caught the edges of his monocle, and he blinks, leaning in further. A grin splits over his face, and he reaches in to pull it out. A hacksaw. “ _Perfect_.”

He snags an extra knife from the kitchen drawer and returns to the other room, humming and smiling. He shifts the body onto its side and cuts smoothly into the neck before starting with the hacksaw, humming a slight bit louder at the grating noises from the bones. He had to be quick for two reasons. Hell was full of all sorts of murderers, but anything beyond the "usual" killing methods was something demons still panicked over. He had run plenty of headlines about the odd serial killing in the City, and he could tell by the increase in viewership that, despite being in an afterlife fraught with all sorts of crimes, society couldn't get enough of the "odd" ones.

Alastor, as in life, did not want that kind of popularity. Hence the lengths he went to kill this poor goat demon in a way that _wouldn't_ make him a new enemy. He had enough waiting for him as is. The other reason he had to be quick was demonic regeneration. Everyone was different, but he had figured out the general rules: wounds don't heal if there's something blocking them, the largest remnant of the body grows back first, and the only way to hinder regrowth is to either freeze the corpse or lock the body parts in tight, sealed containers. That was why he had grabbed an extra knife, and why he left the other knife in the demon's head, and why he placed the decapitated head aside, facing the wall, and why he then continued on to dismember the limbs from the torso of the corpse in front of him. He worked efficiently, systematically, with one goal in mind: restocking his fridge.

It wasn’t anything personal. A man simply had to eat.

•••

Hell generally returned to its own case of normal after that day. In all honesty, the targeted attacks from Sir Pentious was something to be expected every week or so, but exactly what would happen and where would be impossible to decipher. Alastor and his neighbors patched up their homes using whatever they could find or afford and, for the most part, returned to their daily routines. No one spoke about the empty houses scattered here and there, and no one spoke about the local gang activity completely halting. They had never talked about it before, and that wasn't something that was about to change. Alastor, of course, continued his broadcasts in the room in the back of his house, glass cleared and systems re-tuned to account for any damages. The only differences he noticed were small ones. For the five days after, his interview segments were entirely booked with eye witness accounts. His fridge was stocked with a variety of ready-to-make and pre-made minced meat soups, burgers, and steaks, all of his own recipe (though he couldn't take full credit, of course). And on his way back from his weekly, scheduled walk, he happened to glance a news headline mentioning his work.

" _Radio broadcast_ Morning Smiles _soars in popularity following breaking news segment on Overlord Sir Pentious' most recent attack,_ " shortly followed by, " _Radio host 'Mister Smiles' remains anonymous_."

He had stared at the screen for all of two seconds before continuing on to his house. The news had been discussing his show. No wonder the number of callers had skyrocketed. No wonder he had dealt with so many people who were convinced they knew who he was. Thank Hell the attack had been over a large enough area to comfortably mask his presence. There were people in central city talking like he was their neighbor. His cane clicks along sidewalks that are no longer covered in soot and gravel, his shoes clack along cracks that have long been sealed over with new lines of cement, and as his eyes flick to and fro, ears pricked for any kind of sound, he notices that most houses now no longer have holes in the walls or windows completely missing. Life, for the most part, had gone back to as normal as it could be, and though it was refreshing, he had to admit that the rampant bouts of chaos and calamity was something he missed, idly, akin to a favorite dish he hadn’t been able to taste in a while. He whistles a little ditty to distract himself from the idea of food, a melody from the song that he had last ended his broadcast with: _The Ghost Of Smokey Joe._ He turns the corner onto his block, considering opening the next day's broadcast with Cab Calloway, both for the hidden bookend humor and in homage to the man's work. It wouldn't be a horrible idea, but sometimes his audience craved more variety with the music. His eyes dart across the street at the sound of hard knocking. A small group of well-dressed demons crowd near a neighbor's house, waiting for an answer. Alastor cuts off his whistles and hums instead, eyeing the group with his peripherals. White suit jackets, red accents. Not a local gang, but he recognizes them well enough. He snatches his cane by its middle and hastens his pace.

There is a pause in which the door doesn’t open, to which the presumed leader knocks harder, and Alastor just so happens to be within earshot to catch most of what he was saying. “Come on, pal. We both know that me and the boys aren’t leaving. Just open the door and we can talk this out like actual fucking gentleman, ‘kay?” There’s no response, and the leader lets out a sigh, looking almost disappointed. “Don’t make me do this. Don’t make me do this over some questions. Open up.”

Well. His neighbor was about to have his home wrecked again. They had just reinstalled their door too. Granted, Alastor had no idea why Valentino would be moving into the area so soon after Sir Pentious' attack, but he wasn't going to question it. It _was_ possible Valentino had already been creeping into the neighborhood without anyone noticing. Cockroaches tend to be good at that. He lets his head tilt ever so slightly toward them, just to check, before moving to take out his keys to his front door, his ear flicking once as he finally hears the door of the other house open. He doesn’t hear the leader’s response, but what he does hear is a muffled shout and the door slamming shut with a violent finality. He lets himself chuckle, shaking his head. Idiots, the lot of them; everyone knew getting involved with any kind of mob scheme was a recipe for disaster, failure, and eventual death. He spins his keys around his finger, snapping it to his palm and finally stepping up his house's little porch. He had long preferred anonymity over notoriety, and the only reason anyone purposefully involved themselves with any gang in Hell was to make a name for themselves. There was no way in Hell (heh) to be that kind of popular unless you had a way of keeping your title. And the gangs will always stomp down on you if they sense any kind of bullshit. Still humming, he slides his key into the lock. His ears flick again at the sound of crashing furniture within the other house, and winces, his grin never once dropping despite him even letting out a small “oooh” in faux empathy. Serves the idiot right. He turns the key and steps through his door, turning to have it shut behind him, flipping all the locks back into place. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “...Time to get the heater.”

He darts through the kitchen and into his bedroom, a tiny little room that fit a twin bed and little else, and scoops up a well-worn rifle and slings it over his shoulder by the strap. Valentino, surprisingly enough, was one of the few Overlords he was willing to openly disobey. Previous encounters with his men never ended well for either of them, but he was fairly certain the Overlord had no idea what his real name was. He had taken to using aliases a long time ago and only used _Alastor_ at the joints he frequented in his off time. But that wouldn't keep anyone from recognizing his face, and if they decided to knock on his door, well.... He didn't want them knocking on his door. He grabs a small box and a blanket, traces his steps back into the kitchen, and then moves into his radio room. He starts undoing the more valuable equipment and fitting them into the box on top of the blanket. The radio head, a stack of records, a few cords he could easily reattach. Most of his instruments couldn't fit in hideable locations, but he'd be (more) damned if he had to buy a _newer_ radio head than a Neumann M 49 spinoff. He walks back into the kitchen, box tucked under his arm, opens the fridge, and slides the box into one of the bottom drawers. He shuts the drawers, shuts the fridge, and takes a seat at his table to wait.

 _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._ Tick-tock goes the clock hanging on his wall. The sound is rhythmic, loud, sharp, and more than enough to get his ears to swivel in an effort to focus on any approaching footsteps or muffled noises that resembled talking. He checks twice to make sure the rifle he has in his lap is loaded, and he stifles the compulsion to take some of the meat out of his fridge and stuff it under his bed, just in case these thugs would _somehow_ be able to detect the presence of blood and demonic flesh. One of the many reasons he hated hellhounds so much; their sense of smell was very keen.

Minutes pass. The ticking of the clock goes on. There’s a knock on his door. 

“We know you’re in there. We don’t have to settle this with violence. If you just let us in, I’m sure I can send word back to the boss. Have this all stop before it gets worse.”

Right. Like they would ever be _civil_. "Are you sure about that? I'm fairly certain talking didn't get us anywhere last time." He carefully raises his rifle and aims it at the door, trying to judge the height of the demon by the voice. Four on one... Not the best odds, but he'd take it.

“You’re right. It didn’t. And you clearly didn’t learn your lesson last time, _Mr. Smiles_. That’s why I don’t want things to get violent this time. Because this time it might not just be your radio that we crush to pieces.”

He snickers at that, aiming a little higher. "If you're going to come all this way to threaten me, I'd recommend doing some research beforehand. I record using a microphone, not a radio. Radios transmit the frequency into sound-"

“ _My point_ , Mr. Smiles, is that I’m giving you to the count of three to open this door before we break in there and paint the walls with your skull cavity. Valentino is getting tired of this, and so am I.”

"Hmm. I dunno. I kinda like talking like this. And as much as I'd hate to see my skull cavity embedded against the wall, there are worse things you could do to me." He aims half an inch lower, finger slipping to the trigger. "I could give you some ideas, if you wish."

There was a pause. “...Be my guest.”

"Oh, really?" His smirk widens. "No one ever wants my advice! How sweet of you. Hmm. Well, torture is always an option, though I find it rather boring. Everyone does it. Though I suppose I am partial to good ol'-" He squeezes the trigger. " _-shock therapy_."

The bullet instantly fires through the doorway with a massive _crack_ and Alastor sees the splinters fly off the woodwork seconds before he hears the demon behind it _scream_ in anguish. He can’t help but chuckle to himself in grim satisfaction, imagining the blood pouring free from the small, perfect little wound. Guns were never his forté, but he appreciated their efficiency. His smugness is quickly wiped clean when he hears glass break from behind the walls of the kitchen. "Right. _Four_ against one." He rolls his eyes, standing from his seat and twisting around, firing once through the door leading into his recording room and then twice into his bedroom. "Tell me, is Valentino scared of me? I'm only a poor, poor radio host!" He laughs shortly.

There wasn’t any screaming this time, and the bullets don’t seem to make any impact judging by the sound. There was a flash of another gun just in his vision and he manages to duck his head just out of sight just as a bullet goes whizzing past his ear from the bedroom. “Like Hell he is! He’s just getting tired of your _bullshit_!”

"You'd expect a man like him to appreciate a fellow demon pursuing their passions!" He fires two more times into the bedroom, one further to the right, and then another lower. He fires one more shot toward his radio station and drops into a crouch.

His teeth grit at the sound of another scream, at the smell of blood reaching his nose, and he lets his grin widen upon his face. He may be outmatched but just the satisfaction of taking them all down with him is as sweet as whiskey. He takes aim, just as he sees another pop their head around the corner, grin only growing at the impending image of their face _exploding_ into viscera-

A heavy pain _slams_ into the side of his skull like a battering ram and he swears he feels his head _bounce_ off the wall, his vision flashing with red, with yellow, and for a moment, his senses just...fizzle. He forces a breath, working through the pain, and flips himself over, taking a quick and blind shot at the demon behind him - of course the one outside the door wasn't dead, _of course_ \- but the bullet goes wide and lodges into the wall behind them. A foot kicks his rifle solidly out of his hands before landing on his chest, pressing him uncomfortably into the ground as a barrel aims down at his face. A low growl works its way through his throat. There was the sound of scuffling, of footsteps, and before he can process it, there was another burst of pain against his jaw, then another, more down towards his ribs, and even another, against his other side. The pain comes down, comes quickly, too fast for him to see, and if it weren’t for the sensation of a tooth being knocked out of his jaw and ripping open his lip, he never would’ve processed that the other goons were kicking him. He tosses his arms to his face, lips curled back bitterly as the hits land. One kick sends him the last few inches into a wall, ribs momentarily open to the assault before he could force himself to curl up again. All he had to do was make it through this. Then he could pick himself up, move, and set up shop again elsewhere.

The main goon, the one holding the gun, glares down at Alastor with a venomous hatred. His boot slowly moves to his throat, starting to press down, angling it so the heel digs in. “Richie, get his arms. Check for marks. Ed, his legs. Vick, get the rope. We’re gonna make sure this asshole doesn’t get away again.”

Alastor chokes, though he can't tell if it's simply from the boot or the affronted noise he makes as he's grabbed and pulled at. He swipes his claws at Richie, who takes the opportunity to kick him straight in the teeth again. One of his kicks lands on Ed's shoulder, but his legs are quickly pinned and his pant legs rolled up. One of his cufflinks falls off as Richie pulls at his sleeves.

"Nothing, boss."

"Nothing here either. No marks."

“Hmph. So he ain’t helping ya, Vox ain’t helping ya, and I know for sure as shit that Valentino ain’t helping ya.” His boot presses down harder on his neck. “ _So how the fuck are you constantly getting away? Huh? Huh??_ ”

A laugh crumples in his chest and comes out as a wheeze as Alastor's grin grows. "You... think they'd... be helping... me?"

The man’s sneer only grows. “Tie him up. Gag him, too; can’t listen to his stupid fucking voice.”

The foot lifts from him and he gulps in a dizzying breath before he's flipped over onto his stomach. He yanks his arm back as a hand grabs at it, and he growls weakly as he feels rope wrap at his ankles. The main goon’s legs slowly walk in front of his vision, and this time he _sees_ the boot swing back before it comes towards his face, the pain flashing through his vision like lightning, and when his senses come back, he feels his own blood, running hot, gushing down his lips, his chin, and he feels himself snarl as best he can. His monocle was knocked askew, hanging and thumping against his cheek, and the main man must’ve noticed, because his hand moves to grab at it, holding it up. “‘Fuck you need this for?” He gives it a good yank, and Alastor feels the beads sting against his skin and hears them clatter as the binding snaps.

His eye twitches, anger spiking enough for him to feel the odd rush of magic in his palms, but he skillfully takes a breath and lets it simmer. "Aesthetic. Do you really want to gag me when you're going to be asking questions?"

Ed hesitates, poised with a handkerchief to do exactly that. “...He’s got a point, Mark.” 

The leader, now known as Mark, only seems to scowl. “..Fine. Blindfold him instead. I want him to hear every second of what’s coming next.”

The fabric instantly comes over his vision, turning everything muddled, dark, and there was the sound of Mark’s footsteps slowly walking away from the kitchen, pausing for a moment before there was the faint scrape of something being picked up off the floor. There was more walking, a chuckle, and then, momentarily, silence. “Good fucking luck broadcasting anything now.” Then came the sound of priceless radio equipment being smashed into pieces. Glass breaking, metal creaking, wood splintering, electrical crackling. 

"Utterly barbaric." He presses his lips together, coming as close to pouting as possible without relinquishing his smile. He stays silent and still as he hears more crashes, hears feet stomping on metal, hears cords ripping out of sockets. Thousands of dollars of equipment, surely.

There was another kick to his ribs, enough to make him jostle from where he laid on the ground. At least a minute passed before the horrible sounds of sheer destruction stopped, and the sound of heavy, furious panting. Mark’s voice was heard, the distance quickly becoming less and less. “Come on. Let’s get this bastard out of here. Make him talk, and if he doesn’t, we take him right to the boss himself.”

"Haha... Direct audience with Valentino?" Alastor wheezes a little as he goes for another breath. "I feel honored."

"Shut up unless you got something good to say, man." Hands flip Alastor over again, then pull and shift him around to fit on one of the mobster's shoulders. "Damn, this guy's light."

"Not surprised. He looks like a fucking twig."

“He _feels_ like a fucking twig.” 

“Shut up the two of you and just get him into the trunk. Let’s make this quick; I don’t want the boss getting impatient.” 

There was the sensation of him being mildly jostled as his captor moved along, of the feeling of the outside with it’s putrid air and noisy streets, and while normally he would try to inhale to sniff anything out, his nostrils only detected the smell of his own blood. Shoes scuffle against the pavement, there was the sound of keys and the click of a lock, and before he can process it, he feels himself being shoved into a cramped, tight space, having to curl up onto his side as best he can just so he can fit. There's something cold and metal under his arm, but there's no hope of him reaching it with how he's tied. The trunk lid slams shut and he flinches, his own heavy breaths becoming the loudest thing around him. He hears the dull sound of car doors opening and closing, then the engine revving to life. He rolls his eyes and tries to shift the metal object under him closer to his hands with little success. “...Well...This isn’t how I hoped it would go...” He couldn’t help but lick his lips in thought, only to wince at the taste of his own blood, and he clenches his teeth, curling his hands into fists, trying his damndest to make sure his claws don’t cut his palms. He can already feel it. He can already feel some of the bruises and cuts starting to tingle with magic, and he lets himself squirm in his bonds. “No, no, no, dammit, _no_ , not now...”

The cuts on his lips almost immediately heal over, crusting into a scab and then easing into typical skin. He feels something in his chest click back into place, a short stab of pain lacing up his right side before the majority of the aches in his torso ease away. A headache he hadn't noticed drifts away. Alastor curls tighter into a ball as his stomach gurgles, pressing his lips tightly together. His arms felt simultaneously heavy and light, drained yet ready to run a mile, and he could feel his claws inching their way out of their nailbeds. He takes a deep, long inhale, holds it for a count, then slowly eases it out. Calm. All he needs to do is stay calm. He knew something like this had to happen, some way or another. He knew that he couldn’t hide everything forever. He just wished it wasn’t in the hands of these infernal idiots that were dragging him far away from what he needed and towards a place that he didn’t know. A place that he could easily get lost in, could get cornered in, could lose himself in. He grits his teeth, and he almost feels tempted to bite into his own lip, just in hopes of locking his body into a loop of bleeding and healing so that it would somehow stave off wasting the dwindling pockets of energy he still had. The car swerves a bit on the road, some of the bumps sending his head into the roof of the trunk. He grits his teeth. These bastards really had no clue what they were dealing with. No one did. And he couldn't even blame them because he didn't _want_ them to know. He didn't want anyone to know. He didn't want to attract anymore attention than he already had.

“Dammit, dammit...Ok...Ok...” He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the popping feeling that came with a dented lung being properly repaired. He needed to injure himself again, he needed to; there’s no way any of them wouldn’t notice if his lip, his bloodied nose, if everything had healed. Sure, he still had the blood on his face, which could buy him a couple of seconds, but he was certain that even the dumbest of demons would notice if a wound had healed after only three minutes, and there’s no way he could properly explain away _physical regeneration_ on this kind of level. Regeneration only came when the body was dead and the curse of Hell kept them from staying that way, not when the heart was still pumping and blood was still pouring. It would be noticeable, _suspicious_ , and that is the last thing he wanted. He couldn't redo any of the major injuries. His ribs, any bruised bones - out of the question. More than likely, those injuries prompted his regeneration. But the injuries on his face? He could probably deal with those. He carefully maneuvers his lower lip under his upper teeth, pressing his tongue against the inside of his lip and holding back a wince as one of his teeth easily slices into him. Okay, lip done. Now for the nose. Wait for a rough turn, and.... _slam his face down onto the carpet as hard and as flat as possible_.

His stomach rumbles quietly, reprimanding him for his missed dinner and too well-planned out method of rationing. As it settles, and his injuries remain without any further interruption, he lets himself relax a little and consider how he'd explain all this mess to his dry cleaners. He tries to keep his mouth as firmly closed as possible, lips wrapped tight over his teeth so as to avoid any drops of blood from leaking through. The last thing he needed was the taste of more blood, any blood, not just his own. He can’t help but grimace as he feels the car slide to a stop, though he had no way of knowing if they were at a traffic light or if they were at where they wanted to go. He could faintly hear music playing from the speakers of the radio and lets himself grimace; not even a single saxophone or tuba? Disgusting.

"I have musical suggestions for you if you ever want to hear something _good_." He shifts a little where he lays, starting to feel is one arm going numb. "What is that? Rock?"

“Christ on a fucking bike, I can hear him through the _god damn trunk_.” Mark’s voice is trembling with rage.

“Yes, actually. Some new band up on the surface.” 

“Don’t talk to him, Ed, that’ll only make it worse.” 

“I’m just answering a question, Vick.”

He chuckles, deciding he was starting to rather like this Ed, regardless of having just been beaten by the demon. "British or American? This is very important to me."

“It’s-”

“Ed, shut up.”

There was a pause.

“British.”

“ _Ed_ -”

“It’s called _manners_. Just because we’re in Hell doesn’t mean we can’t be civil.”

"Yeah, guys, listen to Ed here. He's quite the man." Alastor smirks to himself. "Thank you, Ed. The Brits lack their own ingenuity when it comes to genre. They're copying America right now and all the results are horrid. At least the old USofA lets their music grow naturally." There was a slam on the brakes and it causes Alastor’s head to smack into the roof of the trunk just as he finishes his sentence, and even he has to bite back a curse, shoulders tensing at the vague sensation of blood welling up in his mouth, of his own teeth, sunken further into his lip from the blow.

“ _I hear one more word outta you, and I’m gonna cut your fucking tongue out! You hear me?!_ ” That was Mark.

Well, that would make it difficult to answer questions. Not all too bad an idea. "I mean, if you really want to! I couldn't care less."

There wasn’t a response. The music was turned up louder, and he could feel the rumbling of the car as it bounced and bumped along whatever road they were taking him down. At least a minute passed, of waiting there in the dark, visionless, that he felt the car finally come to a stop, and the engine died, along with the radio. There were several door slams before the trunk eventually clicked open, the air of dirty rain water and gasoline filling his lungs with a foul stench.

"Hmm, further out of the City, closer to the north side? You really didn't have to-"

A solid punch lands in his gut, shortly followed by claws grabbing around his hair and yanking him upright. His shoulder catches on one of the corners of the trunk and he hisses through clenched teeth. There was the sound of Mark’s voice, dripping with rage. "You think this is a fucking joke, you two piece clown? You think this is some kinda game?"

"Isn't that the definition of existence? A joke and a game wrapped into one?" Alastor's grin curls, though he feels his eye twitch under the blindfold.

There was nothing more than a growl, and before Alastor can even move, he feels himself _thrown_ out of the trunk entirely and onto the wet asphalt below, and he can’t help but wince as he feels the dirty, grimy water starting to leak into his clothes, cold and smelling of smoke and diesel fuel. There was a brief pause, before there was a sharp cracking sound, inches away from his face, and he could feel the impact of something heavy and metallic striking the stone where he laid. Mark’s voice came again. “Now...You start answering questions, or I’m gonna have to start swinging. You hear me?”

"Loud and clear." He grins broadly up at him. "No, really, _start_ _swinging_."

“Tch..” There was a sharp kick to the stomach that was enough to get him to wheeze ever so slightly, and the sound of footsteps as they circle around him. There was the sound of the car doors opening and shutting, and soon all of the mobsters were circling him, like a pack of wet, mangy dogs. Mark was the first to speak. “We both know how last time went. Your radio smashed, your house burnt to the ground, all that good stuff. My only question is; how did you get all that back? How did you manage to get back to where you were before, huh? What did you do? Did you kiss the ass of someone that had a bit of bling on their claws? Did you steal everything back? And, most of all,” There was another kick to the ribs. “Did you really think that we wouldn’t fucking find you? You didn’t even bother to change your name this time. That’s just lazy.”

Alastor curls slightly, if only to keep his ribs from breaking again, and huffs out a few breaths. "I work on my own. I don't need anyone else's help. And I didn't choose the name. Fans did." He coughs twice. "Although, if you're talkin' about my neighbors thinking I'm _Samuel_? There's an inside joke to that one."

“You’re not answering our questions, pal. We want to know how you keep coming back and being a pain in the boss’s side. That’s what we wanna know.” There was the cold feeling of metal pressing itself to his jawline. “Tell us. _Now_.”

He tries shifting his face away, but the metal follows him. He's silent for a moment. "I put it all back together, find replacements for the parts that aren't salvageable. The audience does the rest."

“Tch. That so? And how the fuck do you go about doing that? We both know your equipment is utter trash. Ancient, barely even around anymore. So it’s not like you just waltz on down to the local shop for spare parts.”

"There's plenty of older shops around, though I did have to buy a few newer things." Alastor shifts a bit on the ground, cringing at the feeling of wet now creeping up his back. "I also know a few things about repairs. You have to when you're a radio host."

There was silence for a few moments, and the metal shifts to his chin, pushing it upwards to expose his throat. “Hmmm...” The metal pulls back. “No marks there either.” He chuckles. “I’m honestly surprised you lasted this long. Any sorry sap with no power to their names usually ends up crawling to an Overlord in some way or another. So why haven’t you?”

"Like I said, I work alone." He twists his jaw around to escape the metal, somehow managing to not drag his hair through the city water around him. "And I don't like getting involved in politics."

“Well, tough fucking luck, because Valentino’s gone and lost his patience.” The boot comes back down on his throat, not pressing down this time. “Now, fortunately, he’s given you one last chance. Quit your stupid fucking radio job, and all of this goes away for good. No shoot ups, no beatings, no tearing up your useless equipment. Nothing. We won’t bother you ever again, and you can live out the rest of eternity like the rest of the sinners that line these streets.”

"No can do! I simply can't disappoint the fans that way." He grins wider, though his throat bobs as he realizes what's coming. "Do your worst, but I'm not going away that easily."

“Heh...You know, I’m glad you said that. Gives me the opportunity to beat your fucking face in. Hope you don’t choke on all of your teeth.” 

Pain. Searing, brutal pain, all over his body. His vision flashes, his nerves light up through his flesh, screaming in unison, and he feels blood gush down his face as the sensation of metal crashes against his jaw. The metal comes down again, against his skull, his chest, his stomach, every soft place they can reach. Alastor tries to curl up again, but the bindings keep him from protecting any of his vitals. His jawbone shatters on the second hit, one of his arms breaks in a single blow, and he doesn't even bother keeping count of his back and ribs. He coughs up blood and another tooth clatters to the pavement. The taste of his own blood covers his senses. He desperately tries to focus on other things - the cold of the air and the water below him, the rough feeling of the pavement, the scent of diesel - but he feels his stomach growl anyways. He can feel it, can feel the growing heat blooming behind the pain, the agony of his bones splintering and his blood spilling, the pyre that he’s been trying to keep back. He fights to force his shattered jaw to clench, to grit his teeth, sending a wave of sickening nausea through him, and he feels his stomach lurch as the last few contents of his last meal spews out between his limply hanging jaw. His breath whistles, his body quivers, and he feels his claws pierce his palms. 

_Shit_.

In an instant, he feels the rush of adrenaline fueled magic course through him, sparking against his injuries and refastening bones and organs back into place. The blows continue hammering into him, now only sparking more magic until his arms were shaking, claws sinking an inch further into his palm. His breath exhales sharply, burning in the air and sending a cloud around him, and he swears he can feel his internal body temperature skyrocket enough to sizzle the water and blood off his jacket.

The blows slowly come to a stop, only for a second, enough for Mark to whisper to himself in obvious confusion. “What the...” The confusion is then washed away by rage. “Oh, you got magic now, huh? Well that won’t do shit!” The blows start coming down even harder, his ribs, his arms, his face, his skull, but he can’t feel any of it. He can’t feel any of it anymore. Just the hunger. Only the hunger. Deep and overwhelming and relentless and all he can smell, all he can taste is blood, blood, _blood_ -

Alastor opens his hands, feeling his claws grow to their full, deadly three inches, and easily tears through the rope bindings wrapping his arms together. His arm darts out and his hand connects head on with Mark's next blow, claws squeezing and crumpling the metal like it was a soda can. The other's hesitate for just long enough for his breath to steam out in a deep, rumbling hiss. He wonders idly if his eyes are glowing beneath the blindfold.

"You have..." His claws rend holes into the crumpled metal. "...one chance... to run."

There was silence for what felt like an eternity, and Alastor could feel Mark’s grip on the weapon slowly fall away. His ears prick, and he hears the whistling of several weapons as they’re drawn back, as well as the clicking of a gun’s hammer being drawn. They swing forward just as the barrel of the gun is pressed right to Alastor’s forehead, the trigger pulled. 

_No_.

The rope tangled about his ankles snaps and burns, and the bullet slams into concrete rather than making another hit, a curse flying from Mark as it lodges into the ground. Alastor stumbles back, pain flaring in his sternum, and he wheezes as the deliberate use of magic snaps back at him. His legs hit metal and his claws catch on the side of the trunk, scratching into the paint. "God damned-" He tears his blindfold off, breath huffing, eyes snapping to the group of four, and feels the trembles in his limbs come to a complete halt.

_Not this time._

His head is pulsing, aching, burning, and he feels a hot, stinging fluid start to drip down his forehead. He watches as he faces of the mobsters slowly start to twist into horror, into fear, and he can see his shadow on the ground, his antlers twisting and growing until they resemble that of tree branches. Each of the mobsters held shiny metal baseball bats in their hands, the tips spattered with crimson stains. He inhales, taking in the scent of blood, of flesh, of beating hearts and warm, fresh viscera, held beneath soft skin. 

His stomach growls, and a line of drool dribbles down his chin.

The next few moments last ages and milliseconds all at once. He feels himself take a step, watches as the mobsters flinch and raise their weapons, and then smells the scents of new blood gracing the evening air. Blood coats his hands and arms, flesh tearing into ribbons, and his grin sharpens. One hand grabs a face, the other a shoulder, and a trachea ends up in his mouth. His jaws clench for half a second before he forces himself to let go of it, leaping at another body. He feels the sensation of bullets piercing his skin, feels his flesh being battered and torn, but still the taste of blood boils and sizzles in his mouth, his teeth, his claws. Bones crumble beneath his jaws, he yanks his head once, twice, and an arm comes away in his mouth, just as a piercing sensation plunges into his back, and he feels jagged metal dig deep into his muscles, his veins. His vision turns red, his breathing is heavy and rattling in his chest like an old bell that hasn’t been rung, and he’s never felt so _alive_.

He feels more than hears his own laughter, feels the buzz of static that so rarely plagues his voice these days, and whips around to tear his claws across the demon's face. He really didn't know why he had given this up for so long. The fighting, the thrill of not quite knowing who would win. Well, he always knew he would win, and the people fighting him always knew they would lose, but that was beside the point. His claws wrap around an arm and _squeeze_ , bones grating together before shattering in his grasp. He yanks and throws the demon blindly to the side, hears a metallic thunk from the car, and rounds on the last, mostly unharmed mobster. He honestly can’t tell who the last one is anymore. It’s mostly because he doesn’t care, but the adrenaline and magic swirling through his body doesn’t help either. All he can see is their breath, shallow and tight against the cold evening, all he can hear is the sound of their heart beating, their blood sloshing in his veins, and he feels himself drool at the thought of ripping their belly open to claw out their heart from their ribcage, let it pop like a cherry between his teeth. He could do with a snack, at any rate. He feels himself giggle, a harsh, guttural hiss of static and feedback, and he coils his legs to spring, only for the sensation of something sharp and hot tearing through his stomach to leave himself stopping short in his tracks.

He slowly looks down to see a sizable hole in his gut, blood and viscera hanging free of his torso like wet party streamers, and he slowly turns his head back toward the car. One of the mobsters, the one with the broken arm, holds a shotgun, visibly smoking in his free hand, glaring up at him with visible hatred. “...Fu...Fuck you...”

" _...That_ was a mistake." He completely turns toward him and starts walking, the hole in his side weaving itself back together without any care in the world for the buckshot still lodged inside him. He cracks his neck, hearing faint whispers bouncing around his head, clenches a fist. The ground rumbles and spiderwebs under the demon, the car shaking from the localized quakes.

The crippled demon, his heart picking up in it’s pace within his chest, pales at the sight of the healing wound, of the crackling, buzzing magic, and he grits his teeth, beads of sweat ringing down his temples, back flattening itself to the cold metal of the car. “...Wh..What the hell are you?”

"I'm a radio host," Alastor says simply, and his smirk curls to expose bloody fangs, "and I don't like disappointing my audience." He walks right up to him, snickering as the demon presses even further against the car in a pathetic attempt to gain distance. He grips the man's throat and squeezes. "And from what I can tell, _your_ audience doesn’t care."

The demon’s last remaining hand tightens on the gun, and he weakly raises it up to give it a swing, but the resulting blow is so weak, so lopsided, that it just barely manages to hit the side of his neck instead. The weapon finally clatters to the ground after that, and the thug settles for digging his claws into Alastor’s neck, as deep as he possibly can. “...Fuck you...”

"Hm. No." Alastor's other hand raises, sharp claws glinting in the dreary light around them, and plunges between the demon's ribs. His eyes squint cruelly, head tilting, and then his hand squirms its way upward, grabs the still beating heart, and yanks it out of the demon's chest cavity. He tosses the corpse aside without another thought. The demon only barely has enough time to let out a garbled squeal of pain, drowned out by his own blood bubbling up from his mouth before the heart is torn and the ribcage is ripped from his chest, his body left to flop to the floor to become yet another to the growing pile of organs and blood. Alastor raises his head to look around for the last of the mobsters...But there was no one else there.

Usually he would deal with runners, but he could feel himself starting to crash. He looks around, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by abandoned factories, and he couldn't see a single soul in sight. Three bodies spill blood onto cracked pavement. His stomach rumbles. He gives the bodies another glance, then exhales and brings the heart to his mouth. Blood continues to pump out of it, faintly, but the rest sloshes about like a jelly center candy. He lasts ten seconds before shoving the whole thing in his mouth and chewing. The blood still ran hot against his tongue, salty, metallic, and even with his heightened hunger he could feel his tastebuds shrivel in revulsion. Meat always tasted so much better when smothered in at least eight teaspoons of cumin, and although the heat of the bodies helped make it feel less...slimy, he couldn’t help but wish he had a mint on him to help wash away the taste of copper. He slowly falls to his knees next to the corpse that he had tossed away so carelessly, taking a moment to wipe his drool onto his sleeve, before sinking his claws into their guts and ripping up handfuls of meat, his teeth quick to tear, to swallow, not even bothering to chew. His stomach rumbles, desiring more and more with each bite, unable to properly gauge how much he had eaten, and he has to force himself to stop not even five minutes later. It was disgusting eating raw flesh, and something in his brain was telling him to vomit and make a better meal, but he had no idea where he was, little to no sense of direction, and he was in no state to drive a car. Furthermore, he was starting to feel all the bullets that had lodged in his body. Moving was not going to be a pleasant experience.

But he definitely couldn't stick around if that other demon came back. 

He grits his teeth, forces down his hunger as he clenches his fists, and he slowly forces himself to stumble back up to his feet, muscles straining and bloody wounds lining his sides ripping back open from the stein, and he lets himself hiss as he slowly moves to take a step. He manages at least four before he feels a skewering pain lance up his gut from where the shotgun had made its mark, and his knees buckle, causing him to fall scant inches away from the demon with the torn throat. The lights of the city streets shine in the distance, there were no sounds of other cars, and he could feel the adrenaline start to fade away. His breathing become harsh, wheezing, thin with exertion, and his limbs grew numb, tingling, and no matter how much he tried to move them, he couldn’t. He was stuck. His eyelids twitch, closing for half a second too long. His body sags. Tingling numbness replaces the rush of power. His eyes slide shut again.

"Great. Just... great..."

••••

The first thing he registers, slowly, as his breathing deepens and his blood begins to thrum with his own awareness, is that he is no longer cold. The wet, heavy presence of his clothes, his jacket, clinging to his skin like a chilling vice, is now gone, replaced by a comforting warmth, a soft warmth, and he almost feels tempted to let it take him back under, into sleep. The second thing he notices is the smell, sharp, burning against his nostrils, stinking of chemicals. All the while, there is the presence of smoke, thick and heavy, reminding him of a cooking fire. He feels something slowly brush against his bangs, pushing them back, before something cold, soft, is placed over his skin, and it’s then that he registers that...everything hurt. Everything hurt, throbbed, pulsed, with heat, with pain, with the dull ache of his stomach pains and the various wounds that came with it. 

He cracks open an eye, slowly, and is greeted by the crimson sunlight of Hell’s daytime cycle, filtered through a blind-covered window, surrounded by faint blue walls, the paint chipping and peeling off in certain places. He’s in a bed, the sheets covering his body a fresh white hue, and he could barely see that of a cabinet on the opposite end of the room, off to his right, along with a table, covered in various bloody rags, nondescript bottles, syringes, tweezers and even a few scalpels. His ears pricked, his heart thumping hard in his temples, and it was then that he heard the sound of a small voice, humming. He turns his head, a dainty-looking figure standing right in front of said table, looking over the various medical supplies with a thoughtful gaze. “Ok, bandages are clean, working on breaking the fever...I should probably make him something when he wakes up...Gotta be something he can digest without issue...Maybe soup? Stew?”

Bandages... Fever? Cool water drips down his temple and he realizes the softness on his forehead is a wet cloth. And this person was talking about soups? His stomach clenches at the thought and he closes his eyes for a moment. "No food, please."

The person’s head snaps up, and when she turns, he sees that she only sports one eye, an eye that widens when she sees him looking back. “O-Oh! You’re awake! Wow, I, uh, really wasn’t expecting that!” She grins almost nervously, walking over to the bed, to which Alastor notices that she also happens to look quite small, hopping up onto a stool so that she can look him in the eye. “I was expecting you to be asleep for, like, way longer than that. Your wounds were absolutely brutal. How do you feel? Anything in pain?”

"Everything hurts, but that's fine." He blinks at her, the words not precisely matching with what he intended to say. "Why am I.... Where...?" His stomach clenches again and he winces, taking a quick breath and flexing his hands under the blankets. A clinking sound follows the movement.

She grins at that, if only slightly. “Heh, funny story. I heard all the noises of what I’m assuming to be some pretty nasty fight, and when I arrived, I found that you were the only one still breathing, so I took you back to my home.” She leans over slightly to lift up the blanket a touch, frowning. “It’s so weird; you were at least halfway to death when I found you, and now, your wounds seem to be much better than they were a few hours ago...”

"Yeah, weird..." Alastor leans his face away from her and follows her gaze under the covers. He freezes at how he sees grey in place of red. "You took off my clothes."

She immediately drops the blanket and yanks her hand back, her cheeks turning red as she flushes. “O-Oh, uh...Yeah.” She clears her throat, pointing over to the bloodied rags. “I, uh, I needed to get the bullets out so I could dress the wounds. That’s why I took your clothes off. Just your jacket and pants. Nothing else. I swear.”

Alastor moves his hand to feel over the side that had taken the buckshot, and pauses again, giving her a withering look. "Handcuffs?"

That gets her to flush even harder, and she holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Ok, ok, I know how it looks but I swear it’s not like that!” She waves a hand toward her medical supplies. “I do this all the time! I find demons who are close to death around my house, and there are _a lot_ of them, believe me, I take them back here, and I help them recover! It just so happens that a lot of those demons tend to be very _scared_ when they _wake up_ , and the first thing they do is try to hit me! So I put the handcuffs there to make sure they don’t do that and end up tearing something open again!”

He stares at her for a moment longer, considering the likelihood of her excuses. Then his stomach decides he doesn't care and he winces again. "I'll forgive you this once, but I'm going to ask you to leave the room as quickly as possible."

That gets her to blink, and her panicked, flustered expression drops entirely. “Huh?”

He huffs, one eye closed. His nose was getting used to the chemicals of the room, and his stomach gurgles at another waft of fiery smoke. "You _need_ to leave. You're-" He hesitates, trying to find the words to get her to leave faster. "You're aggravating an illness of mine."

“An illness?” She instantly looks more alert, more serious, frowning in concern. “What illness?”

"A chronic one." He leans away from her. "Please leave the room."

She stares for a moment in shock, before she finally lets herself frown, huffing. “I-You-Ugh, ok, look, I get it. I’m someone you don’t know, you’re someone _I_ don’t know, and down here, you can’t trust anyone. Well I need you to know that I’m not gonna do anything to you, alright? You’re safe here. Whoever tried to kill you out there or whatever happened back there to get you so wounded, they won’t find you here, you hear me?”

Alastor listens to her, hiding a roll of his eyes as she misinterprets his response in the worst way. As soon as she mentions the goons that had snatched him, the memory of the aftermath hits him. The smell of iron overwhelms his senses and he snaps at her, jaws clacking in open air. It takes a moment to process that his jaws clicked shut on empty air at all, and not bleeding, screaming flesh. He blinks, once, twice, and the haze is just barely pushed back from his vision to see that she’s now on the floor, sitting upwards, her eye wide in horror, in fear. He slowly pulls himself back, breaths coming out in audible huffs, and closes his eyes. "Apologies. My... illness... makes me rather disagreeable. I can tell you what to do, but you have to leave the room or I'll get worse."

“...You...” She looks like she’s about to say something, but trails off, and she slowly stands, backing up towards the door. “You...You need help.”

He gives her another scathing look, though his lips twitch up tightly. "Welcome to Hell, darling."

He can hear her heartbeat. Can smell the scent of smoke, of blood, and his jaw quivers as he begins to salivate. He turns his face away from her, staring at a wall and a bucket where even more bloody bandages had been discarded. His own blood, but even that could make him hungry in times like these. Overuse of power. He clenches his fists, arguing with himself over whether or not to simply eat the little demon that had (arguably) saved him. On one hand, it’s a simple answer to his dilemma: fresh, demonic food that would actually fill his stomach with the proper nutrients for him to build up more magic and start healing on a more than physical level. On the other, he has no idea who this demon is, what magic she’s capable of, where he is in the City, and how much he can really do in his position. The chains clink lightly as he moves his arms in irritation. This should be an easy choice for him. But it’s not.

A hand touches his shoulder, skin on skin, and his reaction is immediate, thoughtless, as his heart pounds irrationally. His jaws snap at her, arms yanking at their restraints, and it takes him a moment to process the sound of a scream and a door slamming shut, locks being put in place. He huffs, laying on his side and facing the door. His arms ache, the chains torn from the wall and jingling from his wrists. At least the chains are more or less ineffective now. He could defend himself better if needed. He clenches his eyes shut as his stomach growls again. "Are you - are you still out there? I'm sorry, I - there's something at my house that could help. I-" He curls into a fetal position. As much as eating someone could help just as much, the pains were more indicative of a blackout, which meant fresh food was out of the question. And he truly had no idea where he was in the City. He couldn't risk it.

There was no response for a second or two, and though the sound of her pounding heart going wild in her chest was enough to have him shudder, the thought of tasting her flesh made him want to retch. Then, softly, there was a response, a meek, trembling, _terrified_ voice. “..What do you need?”

Alastor lets out a relieved exhale. Maybe this demon really did just want to help others. Rather rare to come across these days. "In my refrigerator are bowls of pre-made soups and meals. The ingredients help me-" He winces. "-control myself. My magic and such. Do you know Melonview Road and Cowley Street?"

“Y-Yeah...Yeah. It’s, like, ten blocks away? Maybe more? It’s close, though, I know that.”

That close? He must've been lucky this time around. "House 639. Door has a few bullet holes in it. Little porch. Stone pathway."

“Ok, ok, 639. Got it.” There was a pause. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna help you. It’s ok.” There was the sound of little footsteps sprinting away.

Alastor huffs out a little laugh, leaning his forehead against his arms. He listens to her heartbeat grow fainter and fainter. "...Please be quick."

•••

“639, 639, gotta remember, gotta remember, 639, 639...” Niffty can’t help but mutter under her breath in a mantra as she runs along the sidewalk, hopping over the few tipped over trash cans that cross her path as she does so, her left hand clutched tight to her chest by her other hand, feeling her heart pound and her blood still feeling like ice in her veins. “Holy shit...H..Holy shit...He...Oh my God he tried to bite me, oh my God, oh my God, _oh my God_.” She swallows, recalling the sharpness of those massive teeth, the momentary static that had laced through his eyes. And then the moment where he was still, coming back to the present, and the short look of tiredness that had crossed his face. And then how relaxed he had gotten, that moment of humor, and then a snap right back to that crazed look, the chains _snapping_ like they were nothing. No one had ever managed to break the restraints that easily. 

It didn’t make any sense. He had been completely passed out only a few seconds before that. There was no way this odd violent illness, whatever it was, would set into his psyche that quickly, and there’s no way it would give him, an injured man with severe blunt trauma and a _shotgun bullet in his gut_ , the strength necessary to snap metal like it was twigs, let alone the violent energy to attempt to _bite_ her. He should’ve been too exhausted to move, to even attempt _to_ move. It was odd, it was strange, and it went against everything she knew about the human body, which was the only thing she had to go off of now. Was this just...just a demon thing? Did this happen to demons who were here in Hell for a long time? This demon did seem to be a bit older, if his "welcoming" her was anything to go by. But she truly hadn't seen that kind of... recovery ever before.

She darts across the street, sticking close to anything approximately her height to hide behind. The crowd seems to thin the further she walks. She couldn’t help but flinch at the sight of grizzled faces, of sharp teeth and serrated claws, always shivering and suppressing the urge to flee, her shoulders hunched, her breathing kept tight, head constantly swiveling from side to side in order to track her surroundings, still finding it difficult to adjust to her new size and shape. “Ok...Ok...639...Just gotta find it...You can do this...You can do this...Ugh, why am I stuck with just _one_ eye?” She scurries down the sidewalk, hurriedly bypassing a walking couple. 647, 645, 643, 641. 639! Oh, wow, he wasn't kidding about the bullet holes, or the porch. It's a nice porch, if not for the bullet holes." She skitters up the stairs in one take, staring at the door, which stands an inch open in front of her. "Oh, well, that's ominous."

She slowly moves forward to give the door a poke, and when nothing scary or monstrous pops out of the woodwork, she slowly moves to push the door open all the way, looking upwards to notice that there was a hole in it, causing her to grimace. The sight of those bodies, torn, ripped bodies that had been scattered throughout the alleyway in which she had found that man, flashes through her mind like a camera, like an unwanted photo, framed and crystal clear, and she can’t help but grimace as she moves to step into the house, her eye flicking downward to notice specks of blood slowly dotting the floors, and as she moves into the kitchen, she spots what looks to be a discarded gun, broken glass and splinters of wood and plaster littering the floor. She feels herself shudder. “Oh boy...Oh boy...Oh man, this guy got into some trouble, didn’t he?” 

Her eye flicks towards the fridge, and she feels her heart pick up slightly in it’s pace. “Oh, thank God!” She rushes towards it, throwing it open, eye darting all over to look for medicinal bottles, odd pitchers filled with some kind of special brew, anything that might point to what she needed, only to frown at the sight of completely preserved batches of food, from brown pots of stew to slices of what she assumed to be burger meat wrapped in tinfoil. A cardboard box sits on the lowest shelf. It was enough to make her frown, and she moves to slowly pull one of the covered pots out of the fridge, setting it next to her to lift up the lid, blinking at the sight of a completely mundane broth, with chunks of potatoes, veggies, and meat. “What the... _this_ is the food he needs?” She quickly pulls out another pot, finding the same broth and the same ingredients in it, and then opens the tinfoil to find handmade hamburgers, as expected, though she swore she could smell hickory smoke coming from them. She hadn't smelled that in _years_. She certainly hadn’t smelled it in Hell at least. She closes the tinfoil and sets the tray back in the fridge. "Okay, okay. Soup." She frowns at the pot, then shakes her head and hefts it into her arms. "He said it was soup! Better be the best soup in town. Gonna have to get him to teach me the recipe. _Ungh_!” She grits her teeth as she does her best to throw her weight into keeping the pot in the air, eye squinting as she does so, already feeling her arms starting to tremble as she slowly starts to stomp her way toward the door. “ _Rrgh_ ! Somehow...this thing...is _heavier_ than he was!”

She trudges outside, taking the steps sideways, and begins tracing her way back to her house. Her pace was slow, thanks to the massive size of the pot, but she was somewhat more confident in her movements. This block was much less busy than the one she lived on, despite being so close, which meant she didn't have to worry too much about the odd demon harassing her. The closer she got, though, the more she had to duck into shadowed spaces and behind misplaced boxes. Several times she swore that someone had seen her, that someone had caught a glimpse of the food she carried, and every single time she felt someone’s gaze lock onto her own, she felt her heartbeat spike. She couldn’t help but let herself tremble, knowing for a fact that she would do whatever it took to defend the pot she held from anyone who would try to take it from her; she didn’t care that the man in her home had tried to bite her, she didn’t care that he had torn apart several well-armed bodies and was left passed out while soiled in their blood. All she knew was that he was sick, and desperate and he _needed her_. So every time she met someone’s gaze, all she did was sneer right back, lip curled back to bare her teeth. 

She can’t help but let out a sigh of relief the moment her house comes into sight, kicking open the front door as best she can and not even caring that it proceeds to fall off it’s hinges. “I-I’m here! I’m back! I’m ok! I-I got it! Are...” She takes a moment to catch her breath, panting as she half-carries, half-drags the pot across the floorboard, over near where the recovery room was. “Are you alright?”

There’s no response for a moment, and when she pauses to listen, she makes out heavy breathing. There’s a short cough. “I’m... fine. Set the pot inside the room. I’ll - _kech_ \- I’ll do the rest.”

She pauses for a moment, looking down at the still quite cold pot, before looking back up towards the door. “A-Are you sure you don’t want me to warm it up first?”

“Time is what’s working against us right-” A loud, heaving set of coughs interrupt his words, and he’s left wheezing for a moment afterward. “I just... need... to eat.”

The sound of coughing, rough and awful, manages to make her flinch, blood rushing cold for a moment. “Ok, ok, no heating, got it! Let me get it to the door!” She grits her teeth and manages to slowly lift the pot off the floor with a grunt, slowly stumbling toward the door before finally setting the pot down at it’s base. “ _Ugh_! Ok, ok...It’s at the door...” She bites her lip for a moment. “Listen to me...I need you to back away from the door, alright? On the count of three, I’m gonna open the door, and push the soup through the gap. Ok?”

“Ten steps ahead of you.” There’s a faint wheeze, better controlled this time. “I’m across the room.”

That gets her to nod, setting one hand on the pot while having to reach up onto her toes to reach the knob of the door. “Ok, on 3. 1....2....3!” She turns the knob and the door swings open just far enough that she manages to shove the pot inside, the stew inside wobbling dangerously, and that’s all she manages to see before she slams the door shut again, both hands clinging to the knob now, scrambling for the bolt lock, trying her damndest to make sure it _stays_ closed should the man lose control of himself again. 

She hears nothing for the longest time. Just silence and her own panicked breathing. Then there’s a small scraping noise, metal on wood, shortly followed by sloshing and dripping noises. There’s an occasional cough, but that’s about as loud as the noises from the room get. She lets out a heavy, relieved sigh, slumping against the door and letting her muscles finally relax, heart pounding and blood flashing back and forth from hot and cold with a sickening pace. “Oh thank God...Holy crap...You really scared me there...”

There’s a little more sloshing, then a quiet, “Apologies,” and more silence. A solid few minutes pass by before he says anything again. “Thank you for... this. It’s very kind of you.”

She blinks at the sound of his voice, hoarse and shaky, but the words make her smile, and she moves to sit down, back against the door, heart no longer pounding to such an insane degree. “Heh. It’s..It’s no problem. It was a little..unexpected, but I guess I should expect that by now.” There was a pause. “...Alice. You can call me Alice. 1959.”

The faint noises in the room halt, and then slowly continue. “Alastor. 1933.” Metal slides on wood, moving closer to the door. “I take it you don’t know the rule about names down here?”

She blinks at that, and she frowns, slowly. “...No. No one really told me anything about how He-...this place works.”

“Typical. Well-” He coughs, and the door shakes. “Excuse me. Names having more meaning down here. General rule is to not share your real one, the one you used on Earth. There’s a power to it, similar to deals. If I’m honest, I’m not sure how it works, but I’d be wary about giving your real name so freely.”

Her stomach drops at that knowledge, and she feels her blood chill, her voice small and quiet. “ _Oh_...” She couldn’t help but wonder, idly, if this man would end up using this fact against her; she didn’t think so, given that he told her, but she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive regardless.

“It’s not precisely like a deal. There’s more... trust to it. Intrinsic value or something similar. I don’t have any use for it, but there are more undesirable people who understandably know more about how to twist such a thing.”

“...I’m guessing that’s why you have such a strange name, then? It’s to hide your real one?” She can’t help but let her shoulders slump a little; she didn’t know if it was a lie, but it was probably best to take it at face value for now.

"Strange?" Alastor laughs, a loud, full laugh only broken by a handful of small coughs. "It was a perfectly average name when I chose it! Has thirty years really done that to me?" He chuckles again, softer. "But yes, it's to conceal my old name. Only my mother knows that one, and that's how I'd like to keep it."

The sound of his laugh gets her to giggle herself, and Alice feels herself smiling. “Right, I’ll keep that in mind.” There was a pause. “...The 30’s, huh? Wow, you’re _old_.”

"There are definitely older, but yes. And '59 for you? You're rather young. Been doing this the whole time you've been down here?"

The grin wavers slightly across her face, and she nods silently, only to realize he can’t see her through the door. “Oh, uh...Y-Yeah...Pretty much..” She takes a moment to look around what she considers her home; crumbling, old walls with tearing wallpaper, rickety wooden floors, a few wooden stools and a foldable ladder, a table with a single chair, cabinets that had long fallen from their places on the wall to rest against the floor, and a single gas stove.

"Well, good on you, doing what you want. It's a big risk, helping demons in Hell." Alastor shifts against the door and knocks lightly on the wooden surface. "I'd like to help you in return for helping me, if that's alright with you."

That gets her to blink, and she turns back toward the door. “H..Help me? With what?”

"Acclimate to Hell. You seem like you could use the help."

That gets her to pause, and she shifts, pulling her knees to her chest. “I..I’ve been fine so far on my own. I wouldn’t want to make you feel like you have to do anything. That feels...wrong, after I saved your life, and everything.”

"Darling, it's the least I can do." He coughs again. "And besides, I... may have run down some of your stock. I'd be in the wrong leaving you in such a spot."

That gets her to blink, and she frowns. “...Stock?”

"I found your anesthesia and tranquilizers. And I may have broken a few things." 

_'What?!”_ She leaps to her feet and pounds a fist on the door. “Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to find that stuff down here?! It’s incredibly hard! Stupidly hard! Do you know how long it took me to find _any_ clean needles that _weren’t_ going to be used for heroin?! How long it took me to find a good fresh bottle of morphine?! I had _everything_ all set up and in _the right order_ and now it’s just _ruined_!” She pounds her fist against the door again.

"I can help you restock," he says calmly. "I have a few contacts who may be willing to help, and I can clean the place up as well. Alternately, I can help you find a better house to live in and save you some time."

That gets her to blink, and the fist on the door slowly slides back to her side. “R..Really? You’d do all that?”

"Of course. I clean up my messes, and return favors."

That gets her to stare for a moment, before she slowly grins. “That...Thank you. That sounds wonderful.” There was a pause. “..Is it safe to open the door now? I want to check and see if you tore anything.”

"Yes, it should be alright. Let me move out of the doorway." There's a short moment of shuffling. "Okay. You can come in."

Alice hesitates for half a second before reaching up to the doorknob and pushing open the door. A host of scratches lines the opposite wall, broken bottles and chemicals crushed on the ground. One of the cabinets was entirely scored through, though it appeared as if the majority of the mess had been hastily contained with rags Alastor had gathered. And the demon himself was leaning against his bed, wearing his complete outfit, eyes closed and face somehow paler than when she had last seen him. The pot stands at his feet, completely empty, and four syringes lay to his left on the bed. The sight is enough to get her to stare for a few short moments, silently lamenting the fact that at least three of those bottles had to be stolen when the shopkeep wasn’t looking, before letting out a sigh, running a hand over her face. “Ok, ok, that’s...one bottle of morphine broken, one vial of rubbing alcohol, a jar of antiseptic...” She glances at the syringes. “Did you use those?”

He blinks an eye open, looks at her, then looks at the needles, and nods. "Three tranquilizers, one anesthetic."

“Right… Three tranquilizers, one vial of anesthesia, and four new needles too...” She nods once, twice, as if trying to run it down to a list in her head, before carefully moving closer, just a step, walking over to shuffle through what she could find from the cabinets that weren’t utterly torn apart. “Gonna need you to remove the jacket so I can check if anything ripped open.”

"There's really no need." He raises a hand, waving gently. "I took care not to rip your stitching.

“Says the guy who ripped through handcuffs like they were twigs, tried to bite me, and who also happened to get shot in the stomach with a _shotgun_.” She turns to give him a quick glare, though it less out of anger than exasperation. “Somehow I doubt that nothing wasn’t torn, or at the very least not bleeding internally.”

He raises a brow, chuckling at the comments. "So much doubt these days. I'm hurt." One of his hands flattens over his chest.

That gets the glare to fall, and she chuckles a bit, sitting down on the floor to start pulling out bottles and various tools that somehow evaded being ruined. “Heheh. You know, aside from the whole biting thing, you don’t seem that bad of a demon yourself.”

"I try to keep myself as cordial as possible, and I usually don't bite." Alastor lowers his hand, smile softening and brows drawing together. "I am terribly sorry for troubling you so much. I tend to stay away from others specifically for this reason."

“Eh, it’s partially my fault. I mean, you weren’t making me drag you back here or anything.” Alice waves a hand in flippant dismissal. “I knew that helping people like this would bring about trouble every now and again, but it’s not like I can do much else.” She pulls out another bottle, scrutinizes it, then hums and puts it in the growing pile of untouched bottles. “I’m stuck, I can’t go anywhere, and all I have to my name is my medical skills, how to clean, and how to cook. Might as well use them to some degree.”

"You'd be surprised how far that can get you down here." He watches her for a moment, then steps forward and kneels beside her and helps sorting the bottles. "If there is one market that is larger than most others in Hell, it's restaurants and anything food related. Always room for new employees, and if you head to the north side, plenty of variety. Completely international, every decade and century accounted for." He inspects a darker bottle, wiping a speck of dirt away and determining it doesn't have any cracks. "The more relaxed Overlords watch over them to keep things in order. You'd be relatively safe there."

She listens to him speak, her hands slowly freezing in the motions of checking the bottles, and her lips slowly turn down in a frown, though more of a thoughtful one. “Hmm...” Her hands finally set down a small box of pills. “I’ll think about it...But I’m more comfortable with this, believe it or not. Let’s me know I’m actually making a difference by keeping someone alive, you know?”

"Hmm." He hums, considering it. Then bounces his shoulders in a shrug. "I suppose so. Do what you want! That's my advice. No point squandering the afterlife by making yourself miserable." He picks up a bottle of pills, and then starts gesticulating with it as he continues talking. "That's what I do, and clearly it isn't the safest option, but it's what I love and no goon with a Chicago typewriter can make me stop. Sometimes you have to risk personal safety for other grander benefits." He sets the bottle into the salvage pile as a physical punctuation mark.

Her mind flashes back to the spots of blood, the empty gun, and the bullet holes in the walls, and she feels herself grimace a bit. “Uh...” She hesitates, but then decides to keep talking. “What exactly... _do_ you do? I don’t want to make assumptions, but the view in your house...wasn’t pretty.”

"Oh, I'm a radio host!" He grins widely, opens his mouth to continue, and then freezes, eyes widening. "They broke my instruments." He shoots to his feet, wobbling at a sudden head rush, and strides toward the door, ignoring the dots that coat his vision. "Excuse me, but I need to start repairs _immediately_."

That gets Alice to blink at the sudden mood change, and when she sees him suddenly stand, already looking like he’s about to fall, she immediately moves to grab his wrist. “H-Hey, wait, hold on! You can’t go yet! Your wounds aren’t healed! You’re still sick with a fever and you just woke up, like, not even an hour ago!”

"I-" His voice pitches, though it seems more intentional than a slur, and he pauses to pull his wrist away from her. "-am perfectly fine and capable of walking home. My wounds are fine and fevers are child's play. I need to repair my studio."

 _"No_!” Before he can even process it, she’s suddenly in front of the door, hands outstretched, blocking it as best she can, staring up at him with a glare. “I’m not having you keel over just because you’re too stubborn to realize you’re still hurt! I’m not gonna risk you leaving and giving yourself a goddamn concussion or internal hemorrhage when _you_ broke a good deal of my medical equipment! Do you know how many times I’ve seen idiots that stumble out of my house only to wind up dead? The whole reason I’m doing this is so that doesn’t happen! So you don’t have to go through the pain of dying! So you’re staying _right here_ and that is final, you hear me?!” As she talks, her fists slowly clench, and as they clench, the scent of smoke increases as wisps of black smog start to trail from her claws.

Alastor starts, ears straightening and eyes widening at the display. He blinks at her, and coughs once in the ensuing silence. He shakes his head and exhales. "I _need_ my equipment ready for the broadcast tomorrow."

She slowly lowers her hands, frowning, eye squinting in apparent confusion. “...Why? It’s ok to take a break, you know. Why is your radio broken anyway?”

"It's..." He looks aside. "One of the gangs took issue with some news I broke. Hence the bullet holes, and the gunshot wounds, and so on."

“Gangs?” She blinks, her expression falling into something akin to fear. “...Which one?”

"...Do you know about Valentino?"

She’s silent for a moment, her eye holding an expression he can’t quite read, before nodding softly. “...I don’t _know_ him, but I heard that name.“

"He's one of the upper gang leaders." He crosses his arms. "And he's had my place torched before, so leaving my belongings in the place he knows I lived in last isn't the best of ideas. All I have to do is gather my equipment and bring it back here."

She frowns for a moment, and she crosses her arms, as if puzzling in thought, before looking back up. “Then let me go and get it. I already know where your house is, and it’s not like they’ll notice me sneaking in there. If you go on the street when you’re supposed to be dead, then they’ll _definitely_ notice you, and then you _will_ end up dead.”

Alastor watches her for a long moment, trying to gauge how far she was willing to go with this. Her frown deepens at his silence and he puts his hands up. "Okay, okay. Fine. But only if you smile."

That gets her to blink and the fierce determination in her eye fades away. “Huh?”

He lets his grin stretch widely across his face and holds up a finger. "Smile, my dear! It suits you better than a frown." His head tilts, both to soften his pointed features and hide his own frustration that he couldn't outright say his usual byline without giving away his identity.

Alice stares for a moment, and despite herself, she feels her lips stretch into a small grin, and she giggles, the smoke having faded entirely from her claws. “Heheheh. Ok, ok, Mr. Goofy, I’m smiling. Now go sit down before you pass out on me and I have to drag your heavy butt back into the bed. God knows how many muscles you tore when you flipped out earlier.” 

"Absolutely zero, my dear. But of course." He would never admit that some tiny bit of him was relieved, because the dots in his vision weren't leaving and he could already feel his knees quivering. He turns and walks back to the bed. "Be careful out there."

Alice blinks at that, and she crosses her arms, smirking. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not going anywhere until you take off that jacket and let me look at the bandages. _Then_ I’ll get your equipment.”

Alastor locks eyes with her, tilting his head to look over his monocle before realizing he was still missing his eyeware. "There's really nothing to see."

She quirks a brow, the grin disappearing to be replaced with a stern look. “Alastor, right? I’m sure I have much more knowledge on the physical limitations of the human body than you, and I can tell you that _no one_ can take a point-blank shotgun bullet to the gut without sustaining a _huge_ amount of damage, damage that should at least put someone on bedrest for a week, maybe even a month.” She walks closer, trilling her claws on an arm. “Not to mention all the severe blunt trauma. Bruises the size of watermelons all over your spine. And I’m sure sitting up like that makes them hurt a hell of a lot.”

His grin closes over his teeth, and he exhales through his nose as she goes over the extent of his injuries. His head tilts again, and he shakes his head, moving to undo his jacket. "I'm only doing this because you really aren't believing me. There is absolutely nothing to see."

He undoes two buttons of his button up and exposes the side that had been shot through. There were no incisions from where Alice had pulled the buckshot from, and no scars from the incident either, though some marks of stitches still remained. Thicker scars laced across his abdomen, but they were clearly old. Alastor watches her eye widen before smoothing his shirt back down over his side. "See? I'm fine."

She stares for a moment, not saying a word, and her expression is clearly that of a deep confusion. “..Wh...What? How? How did the wounds heal _that_ much? It-It shouldn't be physically possible!”

He quickly starts rebuttoning his shirt and jacket, shrugging with his eyes closed. "Simply a part of who I am, I suppose. I heal quickly."

She frowns even harder, silently stewing over everything in her mind; she couldn’t recall any of her previous patients being able to heal that quick, that fast, over the course of just a few hours. The ones that she had been able to care for and help recover at _least_ took two days, or even three, depending on how severe it all was. But this...She couldn’t even begin to think that this level of regeneration was even possible. Did it have anything to do with the stew that he had eaten? Had it somehow boosted his body’s physical capacity to heal? She finally lets out a sigh and looks away. “Fine. But you’re still staying here for a day, maybe two, until you _know_ for a fact those gang-men aren’t coming after you. And so I can watch for any signs of internal damage or concussions.” 

"Whatever gets my equipment to a safer place faster." He pushes himself further onto the bed, simply to show her he had no intentions of leaving. "And you seem like a nifty kinda gal, so I imagine fast won't be an issue for you."

“It certainly won’t be.” She turns back around, but pauses after a moment. “Where is this equipment of yours, anyway?”

"Pass the kitchen and there's a door to the studio room. They smashed a bunch of it, so just bring back as much as you can. And!" Alastor straightens, one finger pointed in the air. "There's a large box in the fridge. It has the most important parts."

She sighs, shaking her head, but it’s accompanied by a chuckle. “Anything else, old man? Should I buy you a soda pop from the general store as well?”

"No! Please, no. I hate soda." He laughs, shaking his head rapidly. "I'll be fine with just my radio equipment."

“Well, I’m coming back with one anyway. You’re gonna run me ragged with all of this back and forth, so I might as well get something for me.” She gives him a wink. “Be back in a giffy, and you better be resting, you hear me?” With that, she runs out the door.

"Of course, my dear." He sighs as she darts out, and combs a hand through his hair. Exhaustion creeps into his face and he leans back. "Just a few moments. Nothing longer."

••••

“...and I’m telling you we need more. Don’t give me any a this bullshit, Winfred. I got the numbers, you don’t. Get the order filled _today_ . I ain’t gonna ask another time.” Thin fingers trill on a mahogany desk covered in ledgers and paper stacks, all neatly organized, with a space left for a pen, name placard, and ashtray. Pinkish red traces the corners of the stationary, thin loops of white and black following the borders. The name on the placard: _Valentino_. The tapping hand flicks impatiently with a wave. “Listen, listen. _I don’t care_ what some nimrod out in Lower West is tellin’ ya. Those stores don’t fill themselves. Demand is growing. Fill the fuckin’ orders before I gut ya over your kitchen table. Capeesh?” He nods, growling under his breath. “Good. About fuckin’ time.” His brows drop down into a glower. “What are ya still doin’ talking to me? Get your ass moving.” He slams the phone down, exhaling and leaning away. “Fuckin’ idiots, the lot of ‘em.”

The chair sat in front of the desk was currently occupied, and the person sitting against the lush silk cushions was currently trembling, his heart pounding and his breathing was shaky, his hands clenched into tight fists in an effort to curb the terror that was filling his blood with ice. He still couldn’t believe that he had managed to get away from that...that _maniac_ , managed to run away while his pals were being torn apart, alive and screaming and begging for help. Even still, he knew damn well that he had failed in his mission, in the task given to him, and that failing his mission was nothing more than a certain sign of inevitable death. He tried to keep himself still, keep himself calm, not wanting to make even a single wrong move that would result in having a bullet being put between his eyes, and as he sits there, listening to his boss scream and swear into the phone, the slamming of the handle into the receiver felt like the cracking of thunder. He finally swallows, his throat feeling dry, sore, in desperate need of water. “...Y-Yes, Boss, definitely. Complete idiots.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Valentino’s gaze snaps to him, draining any last bit of comfort the lackey had to him despite the shield of gold rimmed, rose tinted glasses. “You fucked up your job, and don’t try to weasel your way out of it. Mark would be the one sitting in that seat if everything went smoothly. So tell me something.” He grabs a cigar from the ashtray and holds it close to his mouth. “What happened to our Smiley friend? Where are the others’ bodies? And why are you the only one here right now?”

The sharp, terse response that awaited his words was enough to leave Ed’s back slamming up against the chair he sat in, and it took all his self control to not bolt away, to not start running for his life in hopes of evading Valentino’s (well-deserved) wrath. He clenches his fists, harder, the scent of cigar smoke making his stomach tighten into a knot. “I...I don’t know. He...At first, everything was going fine. We pulled him outta his house, we smashed his radio, had baseball bats, and we were beating him bloody. But then...Then he just...It was some kind of magic, some power, I don’t know, and he just...ripped out of the rope we had tied him up in, and started tearing through everyone like paper. I saw it with my own eyes; Mark’s heart got fucking ripped out of his _chest_. I only managed to get away because Mark shot the bastard before he could get to me.”

Valentino takes a long drag from his cigar, and sighs it out in small puffs as he processes the information. "You tellin' me this nobody on the streets, living in the fucking crevices of Hell, has enough magic that he took out three of my men _after_ you all beat him to a pulp? I've seen pictures of this guy. _You_ could have broken his knees in with one hit. Are you _really_ tryin' to tell me Mark and those other two idiots _and_ you didn't do enough damage to keep him down?"

Ed feels himself tremble and he nods, hurriedly, terror making his heart pump even harder in his chest. “Y-Yes, boss, I swear that’s what happened! He tore out Vick’s throat with his god damn _teeth_ . It was insane. He had bones sticking out from when we busted his arms, and they just... _grew_ back into his skin. He was regenerating, right before our eyes, and he wasn’t even dead yet!”

Valentino rolls his eyes, shaking his head at the rambling, and then halts with his cigar close to his lips. Slowly, he lowers it to the ashtray, flicks the ashes off the ends, and looks at Ed over his glasses. "Did you say _regenerating_?”

“Yes, Boss!” Ed can’t help but nod again, rapidly. “He wasn’t dead either! He was still breathing, and he just ripped through the rope like it was nothing, and the next thing I know, he tore out Vick’s throat!”

He locks eyes with the demon, then laughs once and shakes his head, leaning back. "Where'd Smiles take you all down? The drop point?"

“Yeah, yeah...I...I don’t know if he’s still there..I..I had to run for my life, Boss, if I didn’t, I woulda been dead like the rest of them.” Ed can’t help but stare, shoulders still trembling, waiting for the rage to come.

"Yeah, I could care less about that." Valentino waves a hand, though a more thoughtful look was creeping over his face. He puffs on his cigar. "So you say he took a shot, and tha's how you made it out? What kinda shot? How bad was the damage? And don't spare the details. I wanna know everything." He leans further back, propping his legs on top of his desk.

That gets Ed to pause for a moment, before he speaks once again. “It was...Mark’s shotgun. The bastard was gonna lunge right at me, when he took a buckshot right to the stomach. Busted a hole right through him, his guts damn near spilling out. Then it..It just started growing back, like nothing ever happened. He turned back to kill Mark, and...that’s when I ran. The last thing I saw was him ripping out Mark’s heart, and..I ran away.”

Valentino considers that, head tilted back and fingers tapping his armrest. "Well, you ain't got any balls, but if that's what really happened, then at least ya got some common sense. I like knowing what I don't know, and I don't think you're pulling my leg on this one."

That gets his shoulders to slump, and he lets out a heavy sigh of relief. “Th...Thank you, Boss.”

"Yeah, yeah. Maurice?" The door to the office opens, a burly, pig-like demon peering inside. Valentino waves a hand dismissively. "Take him to the yard, get him reset."

"Sure thing, Boss." He squeezes himself into the room and takes Ed by the arm.

Ed’s face instantly turns white, his eyes filled with fear, but all he can do is let himself be dragged from the room, already shaking, already feeling tears go down his face.

As the door shuts, there was the sound of a snicker, and two burning red eyes open up in the shadows, just to the left of the desk, casting a thick ghastly haze over the darkness of the room, accompanied by a wide, fanged grin. There came the sound of humming static, but quickly fades away, replaced with words. “Wow, you’re just brutal, aren’t ya?”

Valentino let's out a smokey breath, flicking ash in the direction of the voice. "I ain't got time to wait for broken bones and bruises to heal. Plus, the guy was pissing me off. Not that you're doing any better, Box Head." He looks over at the eyes. "You know anything about this, kid?"

“About what? The mysterious radio asshat that inexplicably can heal wounds out of thin air? If I knew anything about that, I would’ve told you. I’m not stupid.” The eyes roll in annoyance, and the grin keeps it’s shape. “But man, I sure wasn’t expecting _that_. Sure, he’s been a pain in my ass for a while, but to think he was capable of something like that! I honestly feel bad for the poor bastards that got stuck dealing with good ol’ Smiles!”

"Yeah, I'm takin' three of your men 'till they recover." He flicks his cigar again. "I need door knockers and I'm already runnin' low thanks to that snake in the sky. Shit, wait. Marceline!" The door opens, revealing a nigh identical pig demon. "Get Maurice to ask the kid if Smiles had any snakes on him. If it's too late, just make sure someone's waiting next to him to get the answer."

“On it, Boss.” The door shuts again.

Vox’s grin only widens, and he chuckles. “Go ahead and take my guys if you want. They’ll just become mince-meat if you decide to go after Smiles again.” There was a pause. “...We _are_ going to track him down, aren’t we?”

"Tch. You think I'm that dumb?" Valentino gives him a sharp look. "All I know about this Smiles guy is that he's private, hard to track down, apparently even harder to kill, and running down my ratings simply by existing. Television is supposed to be _killing_ the radio, but I don't quite see that happening."

That finally gets the grin to fall into a frown, and his eyes narrow. “Exactly why we need to go after this freak. He’s gonna keep mowing down your men no matter what you do, and if he has some crazy power that lets him heal wounds on the fly, there’s no way any of our gangs are gonna last a second.”

"Which is precisely why we don't go after him." He pulls his feet off the desk and leans over to the ashtray to knock more ash off. "We have no idea what this guy is up to, and he's only killed my men when they tried to kill him. He's _reacting_ , not acting. I'm not pissin' him off until I know more, and I ain't givin' you any more of my men to risk on your little pet project. You wanna kill radio? Do it with your own men, on your own time. I've chased him through three different houses on different ends of the Pentagram. Good luck finding him again." He reaches over for one of his ledgers.

“Tch. And how to expect me to do that? If your gang couldn’t do it, what makes you think mine could?”

"Do you take me for a goddamn parent?" Valentino snaps around to face him again, shaking the ledger in his direction. "You been around here for what? A decade? Less? And you think you can come in here and boss _me_ around?" He snaps the ledger to the desk and stands, walking over with his cigar in his off hand. " _I_ have been doing the heavy lifting around here, kid. I got you into the business to begin with. You've done me a solid or two over the years, but that don't make us equals." He stands in front of him, just barely taller than the sitting figure, and flicks burning ash into his lap. "You came to me tellin' me this guy was causin' us both some issues, so I took you up on the offer of dealin' with him. You _also_ told me the guy'd be a walk in the park, but he ain't exactly so easy to deal with. _You_ dropped the ball on investigating Smiles. _You_ are the reason three of _my_ men are out in the middle of nowhere with their guts ripped out. And you want _me_ to give _you_ a second chance?" He shakes his head, flicking more ash, and turns to walk back to his desk. "I ain't here to baby you, Vox. Time to put on your big boy shoes and work some shit out yourself."

Vox’s expression only narrows the more Valentino talks, the more insults he spews, the more those hideous mandibles of his click and clatter, and as the ash falls into his lap, his scowl only deepens. But he doesn’t say a word, not for a long, long moment, and when he finally does speak, it’s a bitter hiss. “ _Fine_. You want me to start pulling my own weight? I’ll do it. I already know exactly where to start.”

"Oh, yeah? And where's that?" Valentino turns, leaning back against his desk.

“You heard the little shrimp. They dragged good ol’ Smiles over on the East side. The East side just so happens to be where a little demon gal likes to play doctor. Takes in the people she finds bleeding on the streets. If there’s anyone that might know where the bastard is, it’s her.”

"Ah, right, you were whining about her a few months ago." He gives him a bland look. "If you think you can get anything from her, go ahead and take the shot. But you're using _your_ men until you find out more about this guy, ya hear? I'll make sure my people know that, so if I hear you trying to get anyone out of my business...."

“You made yourself loud and clear, Cockroach. Now shut up a second. Gotta alert the boys.” Vox waves a hand dismissively before letting a hand drift up to his face, grabbing a knob etched beside the screen and giving it a sharp twist, and instantly, his face vanishes into static. He goes eerily still, silent.

Valentino exhales a puff of smoke, watching with squinted eyes as the walking television demon did his thing. One day, he'd figure out what exactly Vox was doing, and how. The younger demon had come into Hell as a valuable resource, but he was fairly certain there was more that he didn't know. He could be patient, though. Especially when said patience could mean increased profits. Soon, the knob is switched back to it’s proper place, and Vox blinks once or twice before lowering his hand. “There. My men have been notified, and as soon as they get so much of a whiff of Smiles’s trail, they’ll tell me.” He sits back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “Easy-peasy.”

Vox stares at him, then shakes his head and takes a seat in his own chair. "You're one lazy sonuvabitch, you know that, right?" He pulls his ledger back in front of him. "I was hoping to get you out of my office."

“Can’t get rid of me that easy. I’ll just keep coming back.”

"Yeah, yeah." He waves a hand. "Just shut up and let me work. I've got business to attend to."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Drugs, slight amounts of blood, but nothing nearly as graphic as before. Mentions of prostitution and lots of swearing, as usual. 
> 
> More Characters! And Dad Vibes! We hope you enjoy!

Alastor sits in the kitchen at a small little table amidst a mess of scrap metal, wires, and vaguely recognizable mechanical parts. Three boxes sit in front of him, each holding a separate device that he was sorting the shrapnel into. He was making remarkable time for the damage that had been done, but he wasn’t all too impressed with himself. Days had passed since he woke up, and he could scarcely walk from one end of Alice’s house to the other. He had long since given up sleeping the entire day to avoid the boredom of house arrest, so here he was, finally sorting through the scraps of his equipment in the hopes of speeding up his progress in the next few days.

The door in the living room behind him opens and he freezes over his work. Then a shrill voice calls out, “I’m back! And I brought food.”

His shoulders relax. “I’m in the kitchen, dear.”

There was the sound of creaking floorboards and the idle thumps of little boots walking across the room, as well as the crinkling of what sounded like paper bags and the sloshing of liquid and ice. A sharp smell filled the air, and his nostrils flared ever so slightly as he took in the scent of meat, grease and salt. He turns his head to watch as Alice carefully steps her way around the various piles of metal scrap laying around on the floor, stepping up onto a stool to properly set down her cargo on the table, which were that of two brown paper bags and two large cups with lids over the top. She turns towards him with a bit of a sheepish grin. “Heh...I know it’s probably not the healthiest idea of lunch, but I felt like cooking would just take too much time.” 

She opens one bag, the smell of salt only increasing, before pushing it toward Alastor, along with one of the cups. “That’s yours. I, uh, didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got you a big burger and fries, if that’s ok.”

“Erm. Of course.” Alastor carefully moves his boxes from off the table and slides the miscellaneous debris into another. He grabs the bag and peeks inside it. “I’ll admit, it’s been a while since I’ve had fast food.” He pulls the burger out and unwraps it delicately, not all too thrilled about the oils that are already dripping onto his fingers.

“Yeah, trust me, I don’t eat it _all_ the time, but...” She gives a sheepish shrug, before moving to unwrap her own meal, placing a straw down next to Alastor before simply taking hers, opening it, and plugging it into her drink. She glanced around at all the scrap, taking a sip of her drink before speaking. “How’s progress been on fixing all this stuff?”

“Nothing all too spectacular,” he admits, glancing at the cup and straw and choosing to ignore it for the time being. “I’ve managed to sort most of the more fragile parts, but nothing’s put together again. Should be just another day or two until I can put something out there for the audience.” He bites into his burger, doing his best to hold back a wince at the grease and lack of spices that flood his mouth. At least they thought to put a solid amount of sauce on it.

“Hmmm..” Alice’s eye narrows into a more thoughtful look, even as she takes a bite of one of her fries. “Wish I could help. I dunno anything about tech, sadly.”

“Don’t worry yourself about it.” He waves a hand gently, then searches in his bag for a napkin and pats his hands free of grease. “I prefer doing this alone anyways. Too much room for error with another person working on it.”

“Right, right...” She nods once, almost looking a tough glum about not being able to help, before taking a bite of her own burger. There’s a small pause, before her eye flicks back up towards him. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Hm? Well, what’s been going on out there? The neighborhood has been mostly quiet. Rather boring aside from my work.” He takes another bite of his burger.

She gives a shrug. “Couldn’t really tell you. I know there are some people dressed in gang outfits and all walking around, but they don’t seem to be bothering anyone. At least, I don’t think.” She glances toward a window. “To be honest I barely have any idea as to all of the stuff that goes on out there.”

“I suppose that makes sense with how young you are. Or, new rather.” Alastor glances at a window, blinds drawn, and then back to Alice. “Some of the gangs are merely gangs, but there are others you should be more worried about.”

“I got that, but...Who are they? I know some of their names, but I don’t know _who_ they are or how they’re so scary. Aren’t demons supposed to just live down here and do whatever they want or something? How come these people don’t just...get wiped out?”

“Well, first off, demons don’t particularly enjoy the idea of dying a second time, so they try and make sure they stay alive down here.” He shrugs as if that’s obvious, because it is. “The ones who’ve made it longest and make a name for themselves are known as Overlords. Most these days play themselves as gangster and spivs, and they _predominantly_ fight amongst each other and the occasional upstart demon. The noisy ones take territory, their goons help to keep it, and they inevitably kill each other rather than dying in the Purges. Think of them as Hell’s corporate moguls and millionaires, but not strictly limited to dimes and nickels.”

“Overlords?” She raises a brow at that. “So...They’re just a bunch of snobby rich men?”

“Snobby rich men who don’t mind being known for killing hundreds, if not thousands.” Alastor shrugs again, picking a fry out and popping it into his mouth. “They also have their hands everywhere. Valentino, Vox - the V’s, to keep it simple - they tend to patrol the streets. They’re some of the big wigs in the City actively taking territory. Valentino’s goons wear pink, red, and black. Vox’s wear cyan, red, and black - horizontal stripes, no taste in style.” He rolls his eyes, and takes another bite, this time unable to hide his cringe.

“Right, I’ve seen that last style of outfit on some demons around this place before.” She nods, twice, before taking another bite of her burger. “Anyone else? There can’t be more than just two.”

“Of course.” He puts his burger down, glad to be answering questions for once. “There’s Lucifer and Lilith, King and Queen of Hell. Don’t mess with them or you’ll regret it, clearly. Rosie runs an emporium down in center city. Nice gal, and her wares are good quality. She occasionally tailors my suit when the need arises, though she more or less focuses on bulk purchase items. She’s where most of the Earth goods come from, if I were to hazard a guess. Recently got into business with someone named Frank... Franklin. Yes, Franklin.” He nods to himself. “No idea about the man, but I imagine he can’t be all too bad. Not entirely sure if he’s an _Overlord_ per say, but I’d know the name in case you meet Rosie.”

She’s silent for the most part, simply nodding. “Rosie...I’ll try to keep that in mind, if I ever really need to get something important.”

“And aside from them, there’s all the Dukes, Princes, Presidents, Marquises, Counts, and so on and so forth of Hell. Most have been here for a while, and have mellowed out quite a bit. They don’t get involved very often, but they’re at Lucifer’s beck and call as far as I know. Should be at least seventy of them floating around. I imagine some of them masquerade as regular demons at times, so I recommend good manners regardless of being in Hell or not.” Alastor hums, trilling his fingers on the table, and then sits upright. “Oh! How could I forget? Most obvious one around these days. Have you seen the war balloons floating over the City?”

She blinks at that, taking a sip of her drink before answering. “Yeah, I have. Always thought those were pretty weird-looking. Kind of look a bit like Hindenburg.”

He blinks and tilts his head. “Hindenburg? Oh, yes, that airship from back then. I suppose the airships down here look rather similar, from what others have told me.” He moves to tap his chin, then thinks twice about it and grabs another napkin. “Well, I’m not entirely sure how these ones work, but they’re operated by a man named Sir Pentious. He makes almost every single appliance in Hell, and has been the most successful at taking territory in, hm.... I’d say, the last half a century. Where his airships fly is where he holds territory, and if his airships move into new territory...” He smirks widely. “Did you see what happened in the southeast the other day? That was him sending a message. He wasn’t even _trying_ to take land.”

She nods after a moment, her expression shifting into that of recognition, with a touch of apprehension. “It was kinda scary, to be honest. I didn’t know _what_ was happening, all I knew was that there was a whole lot of screaming and explosions.”

“That’s what he does!” He throws a hand out, excitement leaking into his expression. “He builds killing machines and uses them to do just that. When he needs to. Or wants to. Rumor has it he’s faster at inventing than all the humans up on Earth. He’s had lasers since the early ‘50s, made microwaves back in the ‘30s, and apparently has gotten himself a handful of individual flying devices!” He laughs, shaking his head. “If there is one man in Hell who fully embraces creativity and its potential to wreak havoc, it’s Sir Pentious. He’s made almost all of the entertainment I’ve been commentating on since 1945! Between the occasional spats of the other Overlords, of course.”

That gets her to smirk a bit, and she chuckles. “Sounds like he’s your favorite of the bunch, if I’m hearing right.”

“I wouldn’t say favorite, but he’s certainly a curious one.” He raises a brow at the thought. “He has a certain sense of method about him. But while we’re talking about him, I might as well mention a thing or two about deals. Do you know much about them?” He tilts his head and lets his brows furrow. “You seemed somewhat aware of them the other day.”

“Kind of?” She tilts her head a bit. “I just kind of assume deals are a big deal because, well, demons. Priests and stuff always say that the worst thing someone can do is shake hands with the devil and whatnot, you know?”

“Hahah! That is what they say, isn’t it?” He chuckles a little more and looks aside. “Well, to put it simply, deals make demons stronger. By accepting a deal, you lend them a portion of your power, and you risk losing more if you break the deal. Each demon is a little different when it comes to making deals, but generally speaking there’s a handshake involved somewhere. Physical contact is a necessity, as well as mutual acceptance of the rules involved.”

She looks confused. “Makes them...stronger? How? I mean, I know that there’s some weird stuff going on down here.” She points to her face. “I mean, I know for sure I didn’t have one eye when I was alive.” She points at him. “And I’m sure you didn’t have antlers or fox ears.” She bites into a french fry.

“Deer ears, though they aren’t....” He brings a hand up to one of the tufts on his head, then shakes his head and drops his hand back to the table. “Technically both ears and not ears. Demon biology is strange and doesn’t make sense. But as far as I’m aware, the power that goes into making deals is based on your soul, hence why everyone’s methods are different.”

“Huh...Have you ever made any deals?”

“Oh, plenty.” He throws another fry into his mouth and swallows. “I’ve been here for almost thirty years. It’s hard to get by without making one or two. But I try to stay away from it these days. Too many upstarts who think it’s worth it to stab you in the back after sealing the deal.”

“Right, right...” She looks down for a moment, taking another bite of her burger, before speaking. “...What about your home? Not down here, I mean, up on Earth? How was it?”

Alastor pauses, a fry inches from his open jaws. He tosses it and chews before swallowing. “It was more predictable than here. So, boring.”

She frowns for a moment. “..That’s it? Boring?”

“For the most part!” He shrugs and leans back in his seat. “I lived in the outskirts of a city, near the woods, in a time where cars were owned by richer folk. Nothing exciting happened outside of the news that came through my broadcasts. I was a radio broadcaster in life, too, of course.” He grins softly at that. “In case you can’t tell, I haven’t changed much, but the scenery has.”

“Heh...I suppose so.” She rests a hand on her chin. “But if your life was so boring, how did you end up down here?”

He stares at her for a moment, grin stretching further across his face. “I don’t know. How did _you_ end up down here?”

The grin immediately falls from her face, and for a moment, her eye is filled with pain, with regret and horror. She looks away sharply, turning her shoulder toward him. “...I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Alastor continues to stare, then exhales and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “There’s no point asking about the dead’s life, my dear. It only brings up bad memories.”

Alice is silent for a moment, her arms crossed, fingers clenched tightly around her elbows, head tilted down towards the floor. She nods once. “...Point taken. Sorry.”

He says nothing, then stands with the last few scraps of his dinner and walks it to the trash. He moves to the sink and starts washing his hands free of oils, picking under his nails. As much as he didn’t want to continue the conversation, the look on her face refused to leave his mind. She had been so happy just a few moments ago. He turns off the sink. “I lived in New Orleans.”

She looks up at that, slowly, her eye looking a touch glossy. “...Pennsylvania.”

“Ah, woodlands forever.” He grabs a towel and dries off his hand, smiling at her. “I’ve never been, but I hear the trees are rather different than what we have in Louisiana. East or West side of the state?”

“East.” She wipes at her eye a touch with her wrist. “It’s...a really pretty place. Lots of trees. Mostly oak, pine, trees you’d mostly find up north, you know?”

“Yeah, I hear ya.” His brows draw together again, but he doesn’t say anything about her tears. “I had a friend from up there who sent me a pine cone once. Always wanted to visit, but never had the time, so he figured he’d send me an authentic bit of Philadelphia instead.”

“Heh...A pine cone?” Her lips turn up at that, lowering her hand. “Those things are like pennies up in PA; they’re everywhere, no one likes them, and they’re all useless. The only good things you can do is to step on them so you can hear it crunch.”

He chuckles at the thought. “He said there was something about luck or what have you about them. I kept it on my mantle for the story.”

“Luck? I don’t recall anything lucky being said about _pinecones._ ” She giggles at the thought. “What’s lucky is the 4 leaf clover, or a full sand dollar, or something to that effect. Pine cones are just big twigs that hold oak seeds.”

“Hey, bring it up with Rodger, not me! He’s the one who said it.” He laughs with her and takes his seat again. “I always figured he was pulling my leg with that one. I know quite a bit about luck and pine cones don’t particularly strike me as anything but a token of nature.”

“I think he just got sick of those things falling in his backyard and wanted to send them somewhere else.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Ok, ok...How about this? In order to avoid any yucky bits, we...try to play a game? You know about “Two truths, one lie?”

He tilts his head. “Two truths, one lie? Hm.” He shakes his head. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

“It’s easy. One person has to list three things about themselves, and one of them has to be a lie while the rest are facts. The other person then has to guess which one is the lie.”

“Hm....” He taps his chin. “I don’t know. I’m a rather private individual. Two truths and one lie seem a bit much for me. What about the reverse? One truth and two lies?”

“Hmmm...” She narrows her eye, but then lets out a sigh and shrugs. “Alright, if that’s how you want to do it.”

“So who starts?” He leans on the table and raises a brow.

“Hmmm...I can go.” She goes quiet for a moment, finger tapping her chin. “..I can speak Japanese, I’m 24, and I had 3 siblings.”

Alastor hums. “And I pick out the truth? Well, you’re much too independent to have had siblings, so I doubt that one. I’ll go with... you’re 24 as the truth.”

She grins at that, shaking her head. “Nope. 22.”

“Really?” His brows shoot up. “Rather young for Hell, though I suppose it’s not unheard of. Hm. So you can either speak Japanese or had three siblings...” His grin widens and he shakes his head. “I like this. Okay. Hm. My turn...” He taps the table. “I’ve always wanted to be a radio host, I have brilliant aim with a rifle, and I absolutely _abhor_ Christmas.”

“Ooh...” That gets her brow to raise, and she thinks for a moment. “I’m gonna say...the radio host thing is the truth. Considering, well...” She gestures at all the scrap metal.

“No, actually.” He leans forward a bit. “For the longest time, I wanted to be a chef.”

“A chef?” She tilts her head. “Guess that explains all the food that’s in your fridge.”

“I can make all sorts of things, so long as I have the ingredients.” He grins at her and rests his chin on his hand. “I’ll see about making something for you when I’m feeling up to it.”

“Aww, you don’t have to do that.” She giggles. “I’m perfectly fine with my own cooking.”

“It’d be a pleasure, really.” He waves a hand. “Now, come along. What next?”

“Ok, ok...Hmmm...” She squints. “I...My favorite food is dark chocolate, I’m afraid of bugs, annnnnd...I’m a fan of jazz.”

“Ooh. Hmm... I’m more _hoping_ this is the truth. You’re a fan of jazz?”

She nods. “Yup, 100%.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” He brings a hand to his chest and leans back dramatically. “You scared me for a moment! We would have had major issues if you had a different answer. Any favorites you can think of?”

“Uhhh...Axeman’s Jazz, Runaround Sue, and....” She looks unsure, before shrugging sheepishly. “Those are the only ones I can name off the top of my head.”

Alastor’s grin splits across his face, and he poorly holds back a snorting laugh. He quickly holds up a hand at the look on her face. “Oh my goodness, I almost forgot about the Axeman’s Jazz. That one was beautiful, and it’s been redone so many times since then. Heheheh.... Runaround Sue is a newer one. A bit more pop-y for me, but still pretty good.”

“Heheh. Yeah, I know.” She moves to say something else, mouth open in order to speak, but she pauses upon hearing a single knock at the front door (which had been carefully shoved back into place), and she freezes, the joviality in the air immediately plummeting.

Alastor goes still, quickly quieting his last chuckles and glancing between Alice and the door. “Were you expecting anyone?”

“...No...Not that I know of...” Her eye flickers between him and the door, and she slowly hops down from her stool. “...I’ll go answer it. If you hear me screaming, you run, ok?”

“ _What?_ ” His voice is a quiet hiss. “Absolutely not! I don’t _run_ from anybody.

“Now is not the time for a god damn pride complex. You run if anything happens, you hear me?” She hisses back, just as fiercely, before moving to pick up a piece of scrap from a pile, jagged enough to be an impromptu weapon. She slowly moves out of the room, toward the entrance to the house.

“I don’t-” Alastor watches as she grabs a piece of his equipment. “ _That’s not a weapon!_ ”

“Shut _up!_ ”

There was the sound of footsteps, and then slowly, a door opening. Then silence. Then the door shuts again, slowly. “...It...It’s just a letter.”

He carefully stands from his seat and moves to the doorway into the living room. “Sounds like a trap. Come back inside.”

She’s seen standing in front of the closed door, looking down at a simple envelope with a look of utter confusion on her face. She’s quick to turn and walk towards him, holding out the letter for him to take. “It doesn’t have a return address or anything on it. It...It doesn’t have _anything_ on it.”

Alastor stares at the envelope, taking in the creamy color and absence of any writing. He slowly takes it, feeling the edges before carefully running his fingers over the flatter faces. “Doesn’t feel like much more than paper inside...” He sniffs a corner. “I don’t think there’s any poison either.”

“Poison in a letter?” She tilts her head. “Is that...common?”

"It's happened to me a few times." He holds out one finger and lets the nail sharpen, then carefully slices through the top and peers inside to look at the contents. "Just a letter. So far." He looks at Alice. "Take a few steps back, dear."

She pauses for a moment before doing so, slowly taking at least 5 steps back.

He pulls the letter out of the envelope and slowly opens it, raising a brow when he doesn't see runes or any other kind of magical signature, but actual script. "...It's... just a letter."

“What does it say?” Alice slowly walks closer, moving onto her tippy-toes in an effort to catch a glimpse at the writing. Alastor could smell the ink, fresh and still glimmering wet, though oddly enough showed no smearing in the slightest, written in elaborate cursive.

_I couldn’t help but notice that your broadcasts have been absent for these past 3 days, Mr. Smiles. Do pardon me if this message gets to you in a place you would rather not want it to. You can burn this particular parchment if you wish. In fact, I implore you; we wouldn’t want any enemies of ours to get wind of this, would we?_

"...Well, that isn't concerning in the slightest." Alastor refolds the paper, further creasing the edges, and glances at the kitchen behind him. "I'm burning this." He strides toward the sink.

“What?!” Her eyes grow wide, and she walks right after him. “What did it even say?! Is it those goons that were after you?”

"No, it wasn't them." He lowers his hands into the sink until his knuckles brush the bottom and snaps his fingers. Sparks sputter and fall into the sink. He snaps his fingers again and a small flame coalesces in his palm. A corner of the letter catches on fire and curls at the heat. "Some crazed fan or whatever. Someone must have actually found out where I lived and gotten something for a tracking spell."

“Tracking spell? Fan?” She raises a brow. “I thought you said you had a radio station. How could you have fans if you just broadcast the news all day?”

He scoffs, looking over his shoulder at her with an affronted look on his face. "Some people enjoy news! And I also play music. Mostly jazz and swing." He turns back to the letter, watching its progress.

“Ok, yeah, but...Who would send a letter to you?” She hops up to the countertop, pulling herself up on her elbows to watch as the letter slowly dissolves into nothing but smoldering ashes.

"I don't know, and I don't care, so long as they stay _far_ away from me." He tilts the letter to help the flames grow. "It didn't have a signature either. Smart move, on their behalf."

“Hmm...What concerns me is that it was right outside _my_ door. This person knows where you are, so they also know where I am.”

"Yes. I'll try and find a way to shield myself before helping you with a new house."

Her eye flicks to the smoldering flame, staring at it, with a strange look in her gaze. “...You think this person could be dangerous?”

"Potentially. The way they worded their message made it seem like they weren't sure where it would end up, which implies they used some kind of magic to get it here." The flames reach the tips of his fingers and he sets it carefully into the sink. "There aren't many demons in Hell with magic. Well." He looks up. "Outside of fallen angels, eldritches, and those born in Hell, I suppose. But they usually don't bother with ex-humans."

She glances up at that. “...Demons can be born in Hell?”

"Oh, yes, plenty." He squints at the last bit of the letter, the flames about it sputtering. He snaps his finger again and the embers reignite and crumble it to ash in seconds.

“Huh...Well, hopefully it’s not one of them. They sound much scarier than any demon I’ve ever seen.” She lowers herself back onto the floor.

"I doubt it's one of them. Tracking spells are rather advanced, especially ones which send objects this size." He opens his palm and snaps his hand closed, and the rest of the flames and embers die away. Dots filter into his eyes and he takes a deep breath, setting a hand on the edge of the sink.

Alice is quick to see the way his body his body shudders, the way his gaze becomes listless for a moment, and is quick to put a hand on his arm. “You alright? Is something wrong?”

"A little... dizzy." He forces a breath through his nose, feeling odd tingles start over his fingers.

“...Maybe you should sit down.” She tugs idly at his jacket sleeve. “You’re still a little injured, you shouldn’t be pushing yourself.”

"I'm... I'm fine. Really." He let's her lead him away, though he takes shorter steps. He blinks as more dots fill his vision.

•••

The screen was large, massive, undoubtedly so, close to taking up an entire wall with it’s clunky size and towering antenna, and several times, Lucifer couldn’t help but feel the urge to simply chuck the entire thing out the window, simply because of how it often had the nasty and unwanted habit of completely melting into static if it was so much as touched. But he had to admit, watching the footage of bombs exploding into clouds of bright roaring flames, of demons soaring through the air with the aid of self-contained engines, of one single little laser of light resulting in carnage that reached into the air like it was trying to climb to the pearly gates itself, that the immense view of the screen alone was enough to make any annoyances towards it worthwhile in the end. He lets his eyes scan over the screen for a moment, surveying every tinge of flame and bloody corpse that was able to be picked up from the distances the competing news teams were willing to breach, and he lets himself chuckle, idly twirling his staff in his hand. “All that death and carnage for just one little upstart mob gang. I’d almost consider that arrogance if I didn’t know any better.”

He twirls his staff again, before turning to the massive desk he had before him, a complicated graph of every known area in all of Hell, ranging from the massive city of the Pentagram, to the vast stretches of woodlands beyond and even further, and moves closer, picking up a small pink flag, letting his eyes scan over the map for a moment. “Lets see here...What moves have the great Overlords of Hell made this week?” He lets his eyes scan back and forth, back and forth, before reaching out and planting the flag in a circled area, around the North end of the Pentagram. He snaps his fingers and a white trail of yarn extends from a complicated trail of white to wrap around the flag’s pole, tethering it to the multi-colored mass that was already growing to be a massive tangled strain.

“Valentino...” He picks up a marble white chess piece, carved in the shape of an elegant figure, with a fur-lined cape and heart-rimmed glasses. “Festering in the deep, dark underbellies of the City streets, like a true insect. Though at least he bothers to maintain some sense of class and finesse about the whole thing.” He places the chess piece down next to the flag. “Latest hit was a growing drug smuggling gang, led by the name of Lady Riptail.”

"And let's see about Vox...." He picks up a cyan flag and twirls his hand as he looks around the map, then stabs it a few feet away from Valentino's. He grabs a thinner, block-headed chess piece and places it close to the center of the city rather than next to the flag. "The apprentice mirrors the master. Still hasn't made his signature appearance, though his underlings certainly are quite a bit busy."

He looks over the board again. "Rosie isn't doing anything. Stolas _definitely_ isn't doing anything. Von Eldritches are on vacation. Dukes and Earls do their own thing. Hmmm.... There is that one up and coming woman, Velvet, but she hasn't shown herself yet..." He grins and lets out a sigh, setting his cane on the ground and leaning against it. "Which leaves the slayer of the week: Sir Pentious." He moves to pick up yet another chess, this one a solid, shimmering black, with small little golden splotches, carved into the shape of a serpent, with it’s fangs stretched out and hood flared to full size. He can’t help but hold the piece closer, his grin growing wider, more defined. He lets his eyes shut, and his hand clenches over the piece, claws starting to flare with a solid red outline, letting his senses melt away from the room, from his body, just so he can catch a single _glimpse_ of that ambitious madman’s very _soul._

The odd noises in the room - the buzz from the televisions, the soft hums from the ventilation - fades into the background as the darkness behind his eyes blends into small pricks of multicolored light. He flips through hundreds upon hundreds of the lights, curious little orbs of flickering light which almost hurt to stare at, seeking out that singular, unique aura of inventiveness and rightful pride. Lime, chartreuse, lavender, indigo, carmine, coral - every color and more, all flickering about and within each other, blind to their own movements. He bats them all aside in his search for that specific soul, the one hanging high above the others with the most curious mixture of emerald, gold, ebony, and maroon.

“Aha!” Lucifer straightens as he catches sight of the soul, tightening his grip on the little statue in his hand. “There you are....”

There it floated among the abyss, dormant and unmoving, crackling and hissing with flares and tendrils of electric menace that seemed to violently shove away any light that drifted near, and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, tilting his head ever so slightly, the sounds of a low buzzing filling his ears. Yes, he could feel the magic, the arcane, flowing within that soul like a heartbeat, pumping and beating with the vigorous tempo of a war drum, and his grin curls on his face, fangs glittering amongst the light. He lets out a soft hum, admiring the little sparks that shot off in different directions. He could see the flecks of scarlet tracing about the orb in thin little stripes, more vibrant than the last time he had checked in with him. “Ah, I see. He’s gotten more control over himself. That’s good to know.” The glow pulses brighter, almost as if hearing the praise, and Lucifer feels a shorter, weaker pulse echo throughout the electrical grid of Hell. The flecks of magic and mundane electricity fizzle brighter, then subside to their typical, nigh invisible states.

“Heheh. Building something new, is he? Can’t wait to see what it is.” He takes a moment to collect himself before opening his eyes, feeling his senses retracting back into his body, and he lets himself shiver a touch, moving to set the final chess piece down along with the Southeast section of town, a maroon piece of yarn wrapping tightly against a black flag. “Hmm, let’s see...” He glances over a few other flags marked around the map and plucks a few off from various places. “Quite the busy man, as usual. Taking over a little bit of area at a time.” He finally steps back slightly to survey the map, squinting a bit before reaching over to adjust a single flag that was leaning ever so slightly to the side. “Perfect.” He turns his head with a grin, waving a hand towards his work. “What do you think, sweetie? Does it need anything else to really make it pop? More yarn? Less yarn?”

Charlie stands just behind his chair, elbows propped on the gilded top and palms holding her chin as she surveys the map. A small frown plays over her features as she glances between the diagrams on the table and the televisions playing clips of mass murders. She softens as her father turns to her and offers a small smile. “I dunno, Dad. It looks like you’ve gotten everything just about right. Though maybe having less yarn would make it easier to follow.” She steps forward and plucks at one of the strings, which vibrates around the board until it hits a mass of crisscrossing colors near the center of the city.

“Hmm..” He lifts a hand to his chin, tapping it for a moment before nodding. “Yes, yes, a very good point. Maybe I should try to loop the yarn around thumbtacks or something. Make it much more evenly spaced.”

“Yeah, that can work.” She nods, though the grin quickly starts to fall, letting her eyes scan over the board, over the chess pieces, the flags, the circles, each and every single mark made, be it in fabric or ink, outlining the death and carnage and chaos spreading all throughout the City. She tried to keep her eyes off the television as much as possible, though the sounds of explosions and gunfire were hard to block out. “..Dad? Why do you...let the Overlords fight each other like this?”

Lucifer blinks at the question, pulling himself out of his quiet musings of thumbtacks and other more colorful methods of tracking the demons' progress. He notes Charlie's distracted gaze, how she flinches ever so slightly at the larger explosions, and lets his features soften. His daughter was always worrying about one thing or another. "Well, to put it simply, because they want to."

Charlie couldn’t help but bite back a sigh at the answer, letting herself merely lean over the table, before moving to pick up the nearest chess piece, that of Vox, idly thumbing the surface. “I mean, yeah, that’s obvious. But...Aren’t these people..trashing the kingdom a bit, with all this fighting? Isn’t it just a little bit...out of hand?”

He raises a brow and smiles at her. "It's been like this for millennia, darling. Hell looks best with a backdrop of blood and war." He turns to the television. "To be honest, I'm surprised it's still this tame!" He tosses his cane up and snatches it with his other hand, then walks toward the monitors and smiles wider. "Besides, it gives the builders something to do. Plenty of areas in Hell need restoration too. And we'll need more skyscrapers with the population booming. If anything, the fights help the City more than it hurts."

Her eyes follow her father’s movements, and when they meet the screen, all she can see is the fire, the inferno that engulfs the streets, and for once, she finds herself glad that the TV was muted. She bites her lip for a moment, before speaking again. “Yeah, but...But what about the people down there, Dad? The ones that are getting caught in the middle of these fights? If they don’t end up dead, they end up so injured that they end up dying in the aftermath. And a lot of these souls...” She hesitates for a moment. “...A lot of these souls have already been through enough of that.”

His smile falls and an eyebrow arches under the brim of his hat, though Charlie can't see it with his back turned. "They all did something to get down here, Charlie. And even if they do die, they'll regenerate and carry on life as usual the next day." Lucifer shrugs and returns to scouring the screens. There were more elusive Overlord's, but sometimes they slipped and got caught on camera. "I hope you know that a large majority of the sinners you're talking about are killers, or worse. Having a bad past or not doesn't change that one bit." He tosses a hand flippantly beside him. His eyes catch sight of a Cheshire grin hidden amidst smoke and his own smile returns.

Charlie is silent for a moment, and she almost feels tempted to drop the subject entirely, staring at the screen and watching as the fire continues to devour the buildings of the impact sights like paper. Her hand clenches over the chess piece, watching as the flickering lights of the flying engines flared over the sky. “...But...” The words feel bitter on her tongue, and she almost doesn’t want to spit them out. “...But what about the ones that _aren’t?_ ”

Lucifer's other brow joins its twin and he goes silent for a moment. The sinners that aren't killers or worse? The drugists, the capitalists, the jealous, the greedy, the unrepentant? He'd be lying if he hadn't thought it before. And he'd be lying if he hadn't had a pre-planned response to such a question. "Well, it's clearly not _my_ place to question His plan, now is it?"

That gets Charlie to stare for a moment, blinking in shock, and her voice fades back into silence for one simple second, before coming back. “...Dad...Those people are _suffering._ They’re caught in the middle of all of those _fights_ for no reason, and you have no idea what they’ve all been through. You’ve heard the stories of the wars that have been going on up on Earth, haven’t you? All the people that have been dying?” 

"Oh, I've seen them in person." He folds his hands behind his back, his figure silhouetted by the light of the screens. "They're much worse up there than anything that's happened in Hell. I make sure of that, you know. That's one of my contributions."

Her mouth hangs open in shock, just before her teeth grit. “Dad, you aren’t _listening,_ those people are _dying_ up there, and they’re not being let in and they fall down here! They fall down here and they _suffer_ because they’re being surrounded by all the same stupid fighting that they died from! They...They don’t _deserve_ it!”

"And what _other_ angels and _other_ people do," he says bitingly, sending her a sharp look over his shoulder, "isn't _my_ fault. I preside over Hell. Earth isn't my business, and neither is Heaven. That's been clear for _quite_ a long time, Charlie." A huff escapes his lips and he turns back to the screen. "You know full well I dislike the overpopulation in Hell as much as anyone else, but I've done as much as I can to amend the situation. The only way to change _this-_ " He whips his cane toward the screens. "-is to change Heaven, and we all know that's impossible."

She clenches her fists, clenches them hard, and she feels her scalp start to itch. Her voice comes out louder, growling with frustration. “So, so _what?!_ We’re just going to let these pompous Overlord _jerks_ tear the crap out of Hell’s streets?! Torture the people that _Heaven_ shut out? And for what?! What purpose do the Overlords have? What is _any of this_ supposed to even do?!”

Lucifer slowly puts his cane down, slowly takes a breath and turns around. Charlie, his wonderful, beautiful daughter, all but scowls at him, and he keeps his face straight despite the heavy feeling in his stomach. He could see her eyes darkening, the tips of her horns coming out. He grins neutrally, knowing the hill they were about to tumble down. "I know it's difficult to see, but this itself is a level of order. Letting them all think they have power helps with the overall structure of Hell. And if I didn't let them do this on their own, what do you think they'd do? Say I do intervene and restrict their operations. What do you think they'd do?"

“Uh, they’d _listen_ to you?” She raises a brow, as if that’s obvious, her scowl growing deeper, her teeth already starting to sharpen. “You’re the _King_ of Hell! The Devil! Everyone on the entire planet knows your name, knows your power, your legacy, all of it! They don’t stand a chance against you! Why would they ever _not_ listen to you?”

He tilts his head and lets his smirk widen. "So innocent." He shakes his head, apple rolling about his hat's brim. "They'd listen to me for some time, but they'd only get worse. They didn't listen to God and his word, after all. I'd just be another authority figure handing out orders - orders aligning with the very person who landed them in their own personal torture chambers. Fear only works for so long, and then it has a strong whiplash."

Her hand trembles against the chess piece, and her knuckles visibly tighten. “Then...Then why have any fear at all?” Her other hand comes to rest on the paper of the map, claws already sharpened. “Why have fear down here? Why have hate? Why have death and blood and drugs and _sin_?! Why have any of it at all if you’re just going to... _to punish_ them for not living how God wanted them to?!”

He keeps himself still, tells himself she doesn't mean it, and scoffs. "Why? Why have this brilliant world we find ourselves in? Darling, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't have the answers. You'll have to ask dear old Grandfather about that one, but I'm afraid he's been ignoring all my calls." He shrugs like it's nothing to him and walks around the table, eyes closed. "He made the world like this, not me. He made humans this way, not me. And He made Hell this way, _not me._ " Lucifer stops when he gets to the opposite side of the table from her and reopens his eyes, but only looks at her through the corners of his eyes. "All the fear I hold is entirely made up in the minds of humans and other beings from stories they've been told. All the fear and hate and sin demons hold are things they brought with them from Earth by God's will and God's will alone. He made them to have freewill, and this is what they do with it. And if He decides they belong down here simply because He forgot to write the rules of the game before making the board and its pieces, then that's on _Him._ "

He looks away from her as he feels his gaze tint darker, his pupil shrink into thin slits. "I take no active role in punishing any human soul that enters this domain. _Satan_ did that, and I am not Satan. I let human souls do what human souls do, and nothing more. I would have thought you'd know the difference."

Charlie is silent for a moment, her own head turned away ever so slightly, though he sees her horns already starting to peek out through her hair. Her voice is a scoff, a bitter growl of venom. “How do you know? How do you know what humans having free-will means? What _being_ human means?”

"I imagine meeting the first humans, giving them the knowledge of freewill, and ultimately my entire background as an ex-angel working under the Great Almighty himself means nothing." Lucifer shrugs, a childish pout on his lips. "Such a pity such experience is going to waste."

“ _That isn’t the point!_ ” There’s a sound like a crack, and the Vox chess piece is on the floor, split in two, having been thrown violently onto the carpet. Charlie was facing him fully now, trembling, fists clenched, her eyes glowing with rage, with frustration, with the thoughts and feelings that were trapped, bubbling and screaming and begging to be heard within her head, incessantly, like a cacophony of voices. “I just want to know _why we can’t help them!_ Why we have to let them suffer down here for all eternity just because of the choices they made! Because of what they did! Because of the hand that life dealt them or because of the mistakes they were forced to make! Why?! Why do we have to let any of them suffer at all when we could...” She hesitates, but only for a moment, and she finds her voice to be a shout. “WHEN WE COULD TEACH THEM TO BE _BETTER!_ ”

Lucifer's eyes widen at the sound of the crack, and he turns to see a full set of horns on his daughter's head, an almost pained look behind the frustration in her eyes. The last few words ring out in the room and he feels his eyes widen further, his heart (or whatever equivalent he had) fluttering in mild panic. Teach demons... to be better? He wants to huff and cry and laugh all at the same time, but the shock of his daughter being the one to say it to his face keeps him still. He blinks, at a loss.

The anger in her eyes, bright and vibrant in her gaze, like the burning of hellfire and the luminous glow of the holy, slowly withers away, dying as if it was never there, replaced by the sight of tears, slowly bubbling up in the corners of her eyelids. Her fists were clenched, clenched so hard that her knuckles began to drip, and the flames that were just barely starting to flicker around the edges of her shoes fade away. Her teeth are gritted, gritted so hard her jaw trembles, and it wasn’t until she spoke again that it ceased to do so, voice left thick and rough. “...Well? What’s your answer to that, huh? Why?” 

There was more silence. She raises a bloody palm to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. “ _Why?_ ”

Lucifer swallows at the sight, at the tears and blood and fire. He takes a step forward, despite the table separating them. "Charlie... You're hand-"

The anger flares back up, like gasoline on an open flame, her hair roaring upwards like it was caught in a mad gust of wind, and she slams a hand on the table, the hellfire around her body flaring to life with a plume of light, crawling and licking around the edges of the table, the edges of the map starting to crumble and turn black. “ **FOR ONCE IN YOUR GODDAMN LIFE, JUST ANSWER ME!** ”

His response is immediate and thoughtless. A growl tears free from his throat, eyes glowing a crimson red, and one of his hands slams onto the table. The flames recoil, retreating back toward their owner before flickering out, and then the flames licking across her sleeves and over her shoes die out as well. The energy she had put out snaps back into her and resettles as if never having been used, so much so that her eyes clear to an orange color and her horns shrink half an inch. Lucifer glowers at her, knowing his own horns were curling over his hat and hating himself for it just as much as the instinctive response. He takes a deep breath and hisses it out, rolling his jaw.

" _Charlotte Magne._ " His eyes narrow, thin slits surrounded in embers. "You _do not_ talk like that to me, and you _certainly_ do not use your powers on me or in such a dangerous manner. Is that understood?"

The whiplash is instant, quick, and completely sobering. Gone is the anger and despair, gone is the thoughts and feelings that desperately were bubbling up in the back of her mind, and gone is the flames and fury that kept her throat from closing. Instead, all she’s left with is fear, icy and terrible and leaving her frozen under his gaze, like an imp under the shadow of an angel’s blade. She doesn’t say a word for a moment, merely standing there, hand still on the table, posture still stiff and resolute with the same burning rage that had just been in danger of turning the whole room into an inferno. Her tongue feels like rubber, her eyes burn, and though her heart pulses and twists in her chest, bitter and grappling with her own wicked thoughts, she cannot force herself to open her mouth. The fear killed what little spite she had left.

She retracts her hand towards her chest, a blood-stain left behind on the paper, and she looks away, eyes turned towards the floor.

Lucifer watches her, keeps track of the emotions playing across her face. He pulls back and takes a breath, but his own horns refuse to leave him. He turns away from her and walks toward his chair. "This conversation is over. Bandage your hands and go to your room."

There was silence, before there was a soft stifling of breath, already starting to tip towards a full on sniffle, followed by quick footsteps and the door slamming shut.

Lucifer sits heavily, and steeples his fingers with his elbows on his armrests. He closes his eyes at the sound of her sniffling and exhales once she's gone, lowering his head. "...We don't have to teach them anything because there's nothing they need to learn." Lucifer opens his eyes and looks at the TV screens full of destruction and mayhem. "This is free will at its finest."

He watches as the thin beam of light, fired from the very top of the blimp, causes an explosion unlike all the others before it to stretch into the skies, a roaring tempest of brutality and carnage. 

“...I hope you realize this, sweetheart. For your sake.” 

•••

Alice always thought the black market was just that; a market, with small little tents and foldable tables with all sorts of goods to peruse and buy, coated with people of all shapes and sizes that were looking to find the product that was right for them. She also thought that all the things that were sold there were black, or at least colored to be such a hue, but then again, she had only heard the term once when she was in nursing school, and had no idea what it could mean. Down in Hell, though, where the black market could very well just be called “the market”, she found that her mental image of it all wasn’t that far off. The only difference was, the people were less people and more massive lumbering beasts that seemingly didn’t know to look where they were stepping, and nothing was really painted to look black, aside from the guns, and boy, there were a _lot_ of those. 

She bites her lip as she tries to hold onto the shopping list that she had clutched tight in her fist, her other hand tucked toward her chest, just under the cloak that she had grabbed, trying to keep herself as small as possible amongst the crowd, which wasn’t that hard to do given that she barely reached most of their knees, trying to ignore the icky sensation of wet mud thickly squishing beneath her boots. The air was loud, thick with the voices of the vendors, screaming and shouting to be heard over each other, along with the general hubbub of the crowd as they chatted and talked and growled as they walked along the road. She takes a moment to glance back down at her list, eye flicking over the text that had been scribbled there with a half broken pencil.

_4 needles._

_1 bottle of morphine._

_1 bottle of anesthesia._

_3 tranquilizer vials._

_1 jar of antiseptic._

_1 vial of rubbing alcohol._

She still had no idea how Alastor had managed to take three tranquilizers without keeling over from an overdose, let alone continue walking and talking normally afterward. But in talking with him over the last few days, she had relented in berating him for putting himself at risk. He had swore he knew his own boundaries and had only done so to lessen the damage. She really only stopped pressing because he stopped taking the matter seriously and deflected with jokes and snide comments.

Sighing at the memory, she continues walking and searching for the right shop, weaving between demons and trying her best to avoid the muddier, wetter spots in the path. Shopkeepers alternately called out their wares and kept quiet, anticipating their next customer. Some of the larger stalls boasted bodyguards who growl and hiss at anyone who loiters about. Her eye couldn’t help but flick from table to table, even as she passed them by, curiosity still being able to gnaw away at her, even when surrounded by all of this cacophonous chatter. There were gun vendors, proudly and openly displaying their weapons, some looking sleek and finely tuned, some looking barely cobbled together, some looking relatively normal, while some had a strange sheen to them that didn’t look like any kind of weapon she’d ever seen. It was typically these vendors that had guard stationed near them, and just looking into their deep, burning red eyes was enough to make her heart pulse with fear in her chest, enough to make her tear her eye away as best she could. Other tables held drugs, or at the very least what _looked_ like drugs, given the many bags of white powder, the boiling liquid mixtures rattling away in beakers, and the rampant, twitchy way in which vendors called out into the crowds, raising their collection of chemical concoctions high into the air for any wandering eye to see. 

She bit her lip in thought; those places were the most likely to have a steady supply of needles on standby, though the question of them letting her _buy_ said needles _without_ the accompanied drug was a gamble in and of itself. She didn't want to cross contaminate any of her medicines with more illicit drugs, but fresh needles were, in fact, fresh needles. She considers it a moment longer, and then turns away and moves further down the street. As much as she needs needles, it's also likely that someone working with liquid medicines would have fresh needles on hand. She'd look around more before circling back. She passes by more vendors, more workers trying to sell their wares, and quite a few times she has to duck her head and hurry her pace when she catches sight of those familiar teal and red coats, those jet black bow ties, those cream-colored barbershop quartet hats, her heart never failing to quicken as she passes their figures by, lounging by the sides of the streets, scanning the faces of the crowd with slimy gazes that only spelled out nothing but impending pain. She begins to look around more closely at the wares the shopkeepers display, from the buckets of ice containing fresh hearts and livers, to the dark, mysterious bottles containing liquid that fizzle and smoke and seem to glow within their glass prisons.

She finally catches sight of a familiar symbol, a blood-red cross (though noticeably upside down), against a white background, plastered to a small metal box. The box was sitting atop a single table, and behind that table appeared to be a large, hulking beast, it’s sheer size threatening to brush shoulders with the other demons that were attempting to bend nearby, eyes invisible behind the thick rims of glass, face covered by a stark white mask, shaped vaguely like a bird’s beak. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop its head, wobbling ever so slightly in what little wind blew by. It sat there, stoically, jet black feathers rustling vaguely, tail feathers left to smear in the mud like a jacket that was just a bit too long. Alice slows as she nears the shop, staring at the box and the symbol to gauge its size. The mask threw her off slightly, though she had seen stranger things, and her inability to really read the shopkeeper makes her hesitate. But the cross is the exact symbol she had been looking for, which means this demon just might have what she needs. She slowly and carefully walks toward the stand.

The mask of the demon slowly swings downwards as Alice makes her approach, and after a moment, the head of the demon turns to the side so that one bright white eye is staring down towards her. There was a brief flicker of darkness from within the glass, as if the demon was blinking, before they turn their head again, peering down at her with their other eye. Then, the beak swivels around to point down towards her, and the seam lining the sides of the mask’s shape slowly part, to reveal white, shark-like teeth, in a perfectly straight grin, curling at the part where the beak part of the mask ends. A hissing, low voice crackles forth from those giant teeth, grin never once changing. “Yeeeees? What do you wish to purchase from me, little fire demon?”

"Umm. Well..." She holds back a wince at the note of fire and brings her hands together, eye flicking between the case and the shopkeeper. "I was wondering what's inside the box there. It looks like it could be medicine? I've seen the symbol around a few medical areas in town."

The demon’s head tilts a little before straightening and bobbing up and down in a nod. “Indeed, indeed. I consider myself to be a bit of an expert in the medical field. Been studying all sorts down here for a long time.” The demon extends a hand, a hand that had been hidden by the table, revealing long bird-like talons tipped on surprisingly nimble looking fingers, fingers that are quick to pick up the medical kit and have it pop open. She lowers the kit towards Alice, her form shifting and lumbering, having to briefly stand up from the chair that she had been sitting on just to reach her over the table. “Anything inside you find suitable?”

"Hmm, let's see..." She stands on tiptoes and peers into the kit, eye darting over each vial. There were eight, more than she had expected from a standard sized kit, but she wasn't about to question it. "Morphine, codeine, okay, okay. Oh, you have meprobamate _and_ benzodiazepine? Benzodiazepine is hard to come by these days." She hums to herself, scanning over the rest. "Cetacaine for local anesthesia..." Alice looks up at the demon. "How much for one bottle of morphine, one bottle of benzodiazepine, and one bottle of cetacaine?"

The masked demon is silent for a moment, one talon rapping absentmindedly on the box, as if pondering the exact amount, before nodding to herself. “How about...2 Counts? Sound fair?”

"Hm. Two Counts? Hmm...." She shifts, looking over the bottles again. "Do you have any syringes as well? I can add a few Knights in."

“Two Counts and five Knights and I’ll throw in five fresh syringes.” The demon’s other hand appears from under the table, opening to reveal pristine looking glass vials, along with thin metal pieces.

" _Five_ syringes? Ah." She shifts again, then pulls out her purse and quickly sorts through it. She holds out seven coins toward the demon. "I'll take it."

“Deal.” The demon quickly places the syringes into the medical kit before snapping it closed, reaching out to take the coins, handing the kit towards her. “I’m delighted to know that there are more down here with some medical expertise.” Her beak flashes a wide, fanged grin. “They just don’t appreciate the finesse of stopping death, do they?”

"Oh, haha! No, not really." She takes the case almost nervously, holding it close to her chest and wondering why she was handed the entire case instead of just the vials. "Everyone always calls me insane for it. But it's worth it." Alice feels a smile drift over her face.

“It is, indeed.” The demon nods, grin only seeming to grow. “Consider the case a gift, from one medical professional to another. If you’re searching for such specific drugs, then I suspect you’ll be needing everything that’s in there.”

"I, um. Heh." She shifts, a faint blush on her face. "Th-that's very kind of you. Is it, um - this might be weird - I'm not very - I'm a bit new around here, but um, I was wondering if there may be somewhere I can find you later on? In case I run out someday." She shifts from one leg to the other.

“Ah, I see.” With a flick of the wrist, the demon produces a small card, holding it out to her, and upon taking it, bright white letters appear over the dark grey paper. _NORA, PLAGUE DOCTOR AND MEDICAL EXPERT. NORTHWEST SIDE, MANGLE STREET, 593._

“My card. I hope it’s not too far out of the way?”

Alice blinks widely at the show and takes the card, looking over the address. "Oh, I'm over on the East side." Her eye widens. "Oh! But I should be moving soon. Maybe. It's kind of a _in the works_ sorta thing. Heheh. Is it nice on the West side?"

“It’s certainly a bit more...hectic at times.” Her head tilts a bit, grin never changing. “Certainly much more work to fill my pockets.“

"Well, I suppose there're always going to be pros and cons to living in Hell City, right?"

“Indeed. Some say more pros than cons, ironically.” She nods, chuckling softly. “Might I know your name? It’s only fair to trade names if we are to exchange in business often.”

"Oh, right, I'm A-" She clamps her mouth shut, paling slightly as she recalls Alastor's words. She looks down and scuffs her feet. "I'm, uh, still working on that."

There was a curious tilt of the head, before recognition flits through the mask’s unchanging expression. “Ah, I see.” She nods. “Then we can forgo names for now.”

"Yeah." Alice grins softly. "I'll definitely come and visit once I figure it out, though. Oh, do you like tea? Or coffee? I know some people who can get their hands on some of the good stuff."

That gets Nora to blink, before she lets out a chuckle, nodding. “Coffee I certainly find to be more interesting than tea. Is there any specific date I can expect your arrival?”

"Ah." She thinks for a moment, eye spinning about as if search for the answer. "Maybe in a few weeks? I'm not entirely sure. There's this guy I found who's in pretty rough shape, and I've been helping him get back on his feet. He's kinda weird when it comes to healing."

That gets Nora to raise a hand to her mask, tapping on the edge of her beak with a claw, making a disturbingly solid tapping noise. “I see, I see.” She finally nods once more, swiveling her head so one eye is facing her. “Then I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you. Take all the time you need; sounds like this patient is a toughie.”

"Heh, yeah. He's definitely stubborn, I'll give him that." She tucks the card into her cloak and taps the medical kit. "Speaking of, I should probably head back. He passed out from exhaustion before I left."

“Oh, please, by all means, don’t let me keep you waiting.” She reaches out a hand to shake. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

"Ah, yes, of course." She tucks the case under one arm and reaches on tiptoes to shake her hand.

Nora’s grip is firm, the scales upon her hand feeling smooth, cold, and though the light glints off the sight of those talons, she doesn’t really fear being scratched. When their hands retract, Nora goes back to her wares, beak tipped down as she adjusts the position of a scalpel that was laying on a folded white cloth, picking up a glass lens and polishing it with her sleeve. “Good day, little demon.”

"Oh, thanks! You too!" She waves as she starts scurrying off. "Don't forget to stay hydrated!"

That gets Nora to blink, a bit caught off guard, before chuckling to herself, shaking her head. A kind soul, that one. She wondered how long it would last.

As Nora’s grin finally slipped away entirely, as Alice’s figure began to disappear amongst the thick of the crowd, one of the figures leaning against the wall narrows his eyes, a lean figure that resembled that of some kind of bat, one ears flicking, almost knocking off the hat he wore on top of his head. He plucks the cigar from his lips, whispering softly. “You heard all that, right?”

His partner, leaning right next to him, lifts his head, eyes thin slits, the gills on the side of his neck opening wide before answering, voice gravelly and rough. “Yup.” 

“Hmmm..” He narrows his eyes, then sticks the cigar back between his teeth. He jerks his head once, to the left, before starting to walk through the crowd, his friend quick to follow.

Slowly, individuals submerged in the crowd begin to split from the current, begin to move in eerie synchronicity, walking in the direction that they had last seen Alice move last.

•••

Alice was quick on her feet. She had always been fast, both in life and apparently very much so in death. It helped with a variety of things, and made her time outside of the house relatively short - which was usually a good thing because she _was_ in honest to God _Hell._ She hurries out of the backstreets of the Black Market and toward the main roads, the crowd simultaneously covering her progress and pushing her this way and that. A few apologies along the way and she takes a breath of fresher air, escaping the crowds and hurrying down a half empty street to return home. There were a couple pockets of folk here and there, from those that looked to be in the middle of an impromptu poker game, to one or two demons seeming to be content with just sitting out on their front porches and steps, lounging in quiet spots with cigarettes on their lips or bottles in their hands, either chatting to each other or just keeping their own business. It was all so eerily similar to what she saw when she was alive, yet at the same time, so much more different. It was enough to get her to slow her pace, just a touch, her heart pounding ever so slightly in her chest from the adrenaline. She takes a deeper breath this time, swallowing to find that her throat was a bit dry, and she grimaces a bit, looking forward to downing a glass of water when she finally returned home. 

She lets her fingers trill over the medical kit she held in her hands for a moment, starting to frown in thought. That friendly merchant had wanted her name, and she couldn’t give her one. It didn’t seem fair, and she didn’t really like the aspect of not being able to give anyone her name. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew now that just handing someone her true name was just a recipe for disaster, but at the same time...She couldn’t just forever be nameless, could she? She'd have to figure out a new name for herself, though she didn't quite have any idea where to start with it. Would it be something similar to her human name? Something starting with an A maybe? Or something completely different? There were a few people who took the name of something that interested them in life. One of her early clients had the name Hoax. And another had the name Lure. She had originally found it a bit odd, but now it was normal. She had never considered taking another name, though. Maybe she could ask Alastor for a few tips on how he came upon his name.

Alice is slowly roused from her thoughts by the sound of footsteps behind her, and she finds herself looking over her shoulder, only to see that no one was there. She frowns after a moment, before slowly moving her gaze back in front of her, her grip on the medical kit becoming just a touch tighter. Maybe it was just the echo of her shoes against the pavement or something. She takes a breath and keeps her eyes on the almost nonexistent traffic as she nears the next corner. There was a long way until she'd be home, but she was confident she could make good time. Just a few corners, and generally safer the longer she walked. She caught glimpses of the cars as they drove by the roads, ranging from very old looking, with big bulbous headlights and a structure that looked more akin to a carriage than an actual vehicle, to surprisingly new machines, with fresh paint and slim designs, and from what she could remember of what exactly cars looked like back up on Earth, they looked quite modern. She catches glimpses of the people riding in them as well, from hellhounds and owl demons to floating skulls shrouded in flame and all sorts of oddities. It was strange, odd, and frankly, hard to get used to.

Her eyes flick down toward the sidewalk for a moment, taking a second to step over what looked to be some kind of puddle. She hears the sound of a car rumbling by, and looks up, just in time to catch a glimpse of a face looking right back at her from the windshield. It was a man, covered in blue scales, with bright green eyes, clad in what looked to be an immaculate suit, teal with red stripes. He wore a barbershop quartet hat. She feels her gait slow, the blood in her veins chilling, and she turns her head to look behind her, seeing a pair of similarly dressed demons scowl as she catches sight of them. Her heart rate skyrockets and she turns back around, clutching the medical kit in her arms and starting to run.

There was the sound of cursing, of a car engine squealing as the breaks were slammed on, and most of all, there was the sound of running. Alice didn’t look back, not once, her mind scrambling to run, to figure out what to do. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t, that would just lead them right to Alastor. But she needed to hide, she needed to hide or else they would just keep following her. She needed a plan, she needed a plan and she didn’t have one. What was she gonna do? What can she do? She makes it to the corner in a quarter the time she would have taken by walking, and turns sharply. Maybe she could outrun them, find somewhere to wait until things calmed down? 

Her eyes widen as she sees another pair of thugs just a few feet away, and instantly pulls the break on running. Her arms tighten around the medical kit as she skids to a halt. She feels her heart pound in her chest, feels her blood turn to ice within her veins, and were it not for her grip on the kit, she was sure she would be trembling. She takes a single step back, two, before feeling shadows fall over her, and she looks back to see the other thugs closing in, slowly surrounding her in a circle, all glaring down at her in annoyance, in vague anger, fists clenched with obviously hostile intentions. There was the sound of a throat clearing, and she looks back in front of her to see a bat demon slowly step forward, a cigar clenched between his teeth, a cigar he removes in order to speak. “..So...A patient that heals oddly, is that right?”

Her eye widens for a moment as the words register. Her words. Had they been following her since she bought the medicine? She forces herself to scowl at him, regardless of the terror running through her. "Yeah? And what of it?"

“Hmph.” The demon scowls, taking a few steps closer. “Well, we just so happen to be looking for someone around here. Someone that, or so we’ve been told, has some very odd things about them.” His eyes narrow. “And that there’s also a little lady walking around that may know where he is.”

"Well, I'm sorry to inform you that demons healing weirdly isn't exactly a rare thing down here." She huffs to cover her trembling voice. "There's plenty of demons out there who can easily flush out poisons and other drugs faster than others. That's what I was talking about."

“Then why’d you have to buy so many bottles? Why so many syringes?” The demon tilts his head, and the others surrounding him scowl.

"I didn't give a number for the syringes, and she gave me a good deal." Alice tightens her arms around her kit. "And I'm running low on a few supplies, so I figured I'd come by and see what everyone had. It just so happened that she had a lot of medicine that is hard to come by at such good prices." She stomps her foot on the ground. "Is it really such a bad thing for me to go shopping? And get a good haul every now and then?"

“Getting defensive, are we?” The man’s eyes narrow. “Look, missy, we’ll be happy to leave you and your medicine alone. We just want to know where the guy is. Tell us, or better yet, show us, and we’ll be happy to never look at you again. Trust me, you don’t want to get on our bad side. Especially not the bad side of our boss.”

"You want me to hand over one of my clients?" It wasn't shocking to her, but she couldn't help but be baffled all the same. "How do I even know the guy you're looking for is the guy I'm treating?"

“You’ll know, once you show us where you’re keeping him.” He blows some of the cigar smoke away from his lips. “If he isn’t the guy, we’ll be on our way. If he is...Well, all you gotta do is hand him over. Easy. Simple. Besides, why the hell are you even trying to protect him anyway? Why do you care what happens?”

"Because the man I'm taking care of is currently _sick._ " She huffs again, and briefly shows her medical kit. "Very sick. And I won't let anyone compromise his health further, be it by disturbing him while he's recovering or tearing him from his bed while he's sleeping."

His eyes narrow even more. “So, you’re not gonna show us where he is? Is that really the route you wanna take?”

There was the sound of a gun’s hammer being pulled back behind her.

Alice flinches, but stays still. They could kill her right here. Chances were that she couldn't fight back. She takes a breath. "I... will... not compromise my clients." She raises her chin at the bat demon. Her entire body was trembling, from her toes to her fingers to her lips, but she refused to back down. "I am someone other demons can trust, and I will not tarnish my name or reputation because a bunch of thugs scared me with empty threats."

That gets the bat to scoff, and she feels something cold press to the back of her head. “Who said anything about empty threats?”

She tenses as the gun touches her, nearly the width of her head, and her trembling increases tenfold, the medical kit shaking. She wants to run, to yell at them, to scream, to do anything, but she freezes and can't force herself to move. All she wanted to do was help people and these _goons_ were going to kill her for it? Why? Why would someone be so cold-hearted as to-

"Hey!" A loud voice calls to them from across the street. "Why don't ya big boys go pick on someone your own size!? Or are ya too scared of a little lady that you need five people to make yourself feel safe?"

All of the men surrounding her turn their heads to see who it is, and the bat demon’s grin drops into a scowl. He sighs, shaking his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God fucking dammit..” He raises his head and shouts toward the voice. “It’s not any of your business, pal! Keep walking!”

"Oh yeah? How about a big ol' _no?_ " There's the sound of heels clicking on pavement, and a car slams on its break. "Hey! Watch the fuckin' road, you asshat!" A tall, white, spidery man throws up the middle finger at the driver and hurries to the other side of the road, putting a hand on his hip as he surveys the small crowd. He looks the bat demon over with an unimpressed look. "I dunno if you know this, but this is _my_ street. I walk this stretch for fair gain and _you_ are messing with my business."

The bat narrows his eyes, taking another puff of his cigar, not even bothering to turn his head away as he blows a big puff of smoke in the other man’s direction. “Yeah? So what? Why should we listen to you? This ain’t none of _your_ business anyways. This is ours, and we’re just following orders.”

The demon stares, still unimpressed as the smoke blows in his face. He waves a hand - one of four - and leans forward to look the man in the eyes. "You wanna look at me and take a look at what _my business_ is? I'm a fuckin' prostitute, ya moron, and you're scarin' off my clientele! I don't care about your fuckin' orders. Go ahead and scream to dear old dad. I'm sure he'll love hearin' how you got _five_ bruisers lined up for a little girl barely two feet off the ground. Makes Vox look _absolutely amazin'_ don't ya think?" He pulls back, smirking proudly.

The rest of the thugs all visibly tense, and the leader has his eyes narrow. He looks him up and down for a moment, a long moment, then growls, teeth bared in a snarl. “And what makes you think you can just go around giving me orders to leave?“

"Since your joe here doesn't know how to hold a rifle worth shit." He turns and jerks his head back at the demon who had put the gun to Alice's head. "I may just be a pretty face, but even I know something that big needs two hands." He smirks salaciously and walks up to him, leaning in close to his face. "Isn't that right, bud?"

The thug holding the gun, the lizard man that had been in the car, leans away as best he can without moving the the barrel away from Alice’s head, flushing fiercely as he does so, looking both flustered and disgruntled. “G-Get away from me, man.” 

The bat snaps his fingers twice, rapidly. “Hey, you, slut. Why don’t you just back off, ok? I’m sure your pimp, whoever he is, wouldn’t give a shit about you getting your head caved in while on the job.”

"Hmm." The spider demon props an elbow on the lizard demon's shoulder, one hand tapping his chin. His lower arms cross in front of him, and then his eyes widen. "Oh, yeah! He gave me a raise the other day. Let's see where I put it..." His lower hands pat over his torso, accentuating his curves, and then dives a hand under his lapels and pulls out a thick, lacquered card, pink and red with a heart in the center. His lower arm passes it to his upper arm and he holds it out so everyone can see it. "I know I'm just some lowbrow right now, but I'm pretty sure you'd know about this little thing, right?"

There was a pause in the air, and the bat demon’s face visibly turns to a look of shocked, then confusion, then slowly growing into that of frustration, of anger, and he growls low in his throat. “...Don’t think I won’t forget this, you hear me?” He snaps his fingers, and the lizard slowly lowers the gun away from it’s point against Alice’s head. Without a word, they all pull away from their formation, and walk towards the car.

"Yeah, I thought as much." He tucks the card back under his lapel and watches the gang pile into the car. "Go ahead and crawl on back to your box head upstart corporatist, yeah? And stay off my street! Unless you're a payin' customer of course~!"

There were several curses and many flipping of the birds, and before Alice could even process what just happened, there was another screech of the tires as the car sped away. There was at least a pause of silence before Alice felt the adrenaline of it all finally reach her, her knees buckling and her tight grip on the medical kit turning loose, and she clasps a hand to her chest, her heart pounding wildly while her blood ran cold. “Ohh....Ohhhh my God...”

The spider demon laughs as the car zips off, and then abruptly stops as he hears the clatter of the case hitting the ground. He turns round to face Alice and hurriedly moves over to her, hands steadying her shoulders. "Hey, hey. Everything's alright, yeah? We're gonna get you cleaned up and back home. How's that sound?"

“...Yeah, yeah...” She barely even registers his hands, eye still somewhat staring at nothing for a moment, blinking once, twice. “Can...Can you just...give me a second?”

"Sure, doll. Yeah. Everyone needs a breather sometime." He pulls back to give her space and straightens, turning so he's only half facing her, in case his attention made her nervous. "The name's Angel Dust, by the way, but you can call me Angel."

“...I....” She hesitates for just a moment before finally letting out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her hair as she tilts her head to look up at him. “You know what....You saved me from getting shot in the head, so you probably don’t mean me any harm...Alice...My name is Alice...”

"Ah, shit. You really are young." He watches her for a moment, then crouches awkwardly to get closer to her level. "You know you shouldn't give out your real name, right? Name's have some real meaning down here, for some fucked up reason."

“I am _fully aware,_ trust me.” She nods softly, moving to slowly pick her medical kit back up. “I just...can’t bring myself to care right now. I don’t have any other name to use anyway, and I can’t just _not_ share a name with the person that saved my life.” She hugs the box to her chest for a moment, taking a deep breath in before letting it back out again. “...Thanks, for that. I..I thought I was a goner.”

"Sure thing, doll. I keep my street running nicely. _No one_ deals with any o' that gang bullshit on my watch." He glances at her kit, brows raising. "You got drugs in there?"

“Well, not the kind you shoot yourself up with.” She slowly moves to stand, wiping down her skirt. “I mean, you do, but, you usually have to be bleeding first.”

"Ah, so, like, doctor-y kinda medicine?" He stands with her, holding two hands out for her if she needs them. "Hard to come by the real stuff."

“Yeah, yeah...Hence why I’m out here..” She takes another deep breath, tucking the box to her chest. She looks back toward the road where the car had sped off, frowning. “I..Aren’t you worried about those guys? They could hurt you.”

"Oh, please." He waves a hand, laughing as he talks. "Those punks wouldn't lay a hand on me. I have an in with another gang they don't wanna piss off. And I've dealt with a lot worse, trust me. These streets, at night? They get pretty sleazy, I'll tell you that."

“Hmm...” She frowns harder, as if she doesn’t look that sure, before looking up towards him. “Well...Maybe it would still be best if you walk home with me, then. I don’t trust that they won’t try to jump you the moment you leave or anything.”

Angel blinks at her, both brows raising with humor in his eyes. "You think I'd let you walk home alone after seein' all that? Doll, everyone who gets hassled on these streets by jerks like them? We stick together." He holds a hand out to her. "Come on, now. Which way goes back home?"

That gets her to blink, a bit surprised, before she slowly moves to hold the kit under one arm, reaching out to grab his hand with the other. “It’s this way.” She starts to walk forwards, leading the way. “The medical stuff isn’t for me, by the way. I, uh...I have a friend who’s resting in my home. Got hurt pretty bad.”

"Oh, yeah? Sorry to hear about that." He follows her, taking a few short steps as Alice skitters forward at a faster pace than he expects. "So, you a doctor, or just like, your friend's doctor?"

“Doctor. Well, kind of? I took training as a nurse when I was alive. Oh, uh, right, forgot.” Her eye flicks up towards him as she turns her head to face him. “1959. That’s when I died.”

"Oh, yeah, 1947." He glances at the opposite sidewalk as they walk, then looks back down at her "So this is just your second year? Pretty good time to be a newbie in Hell, I suppose."

“Heh, yeah, it’s been...a real hoot so far.” She chuckles a bit, though it’s a touch weak. “Never thought it would look anything like this.”

"I know, right!?" Angel straightens a little more, hands gesturing around them as he talks. "I grew up being told I'd be the spider hangin' over a pit of fire an' brimstone, and here I am, walking around a full on City with booze, liquor, and hard drugs on every corner. And prostitution's _legal_! Everywhere!"

“It’s...definitely a far cry from what the churches and whatnot said, you know?” She cranes her neck upwards towards the black, unending sky, staring towards that strange ominous red moon(?) hanging over the City. “It’s honestly a bit of a relief.”

"You can say that again." He laughs, softer this time. "If the church got half their shit right, I'd actually want out of this place."

“I only went to one once or twice, usually because of my dad taking me. Didn’t know what they were talking about, but it definitely _looked_ pretty.” She grins at the thought, looking back down towards the street. “I especially love those weird glass windows that’s all a bunch of different colors.”

"Oh, yeah, stained glass? Pretty cool." He nods a few times. "You can find it every now and then on the ritzier side of town. Rumor has it the King of Hell has a thing for stained glass art. _I_ think he's just doing it to make fun of churches."

“Really?” She blinks at that. “You mean, like, the Devil?” 

"Yup! Top boss and all." Angel taps her shoulder. "Oh, we'll want to cross the street up here. Couple o' bars that get rowdy around this time comin' up."

She blinks at that. “Oh, uh, right. Thanks.” She stands by the crosswalk, waits for a moment, before starting to cross again. “So, has anyone ever actually _seen_ the Devil? Like, I know he’s here, but, like, does he ever do anything?”

"Ah..." He taps his lips. "I dunno. I remember hearing some rumor that he was actually out on the streets during some action back in the thirties, but he's been pretty silent since then. Far as I know, he watches over the Overlords or somethin'. Everyone says he's always busy with something. The only time anyone sees him out of work is, like, annual events? Balls and shit."

“Balls?” She raises a brow. “Like...ballroom dancing? He’s the literal Devil and epitome of evil and he goes on ballroom dances?”

"I know right? I've seen him on television a few times. He looks like he runs a sweetshop sellin' lollipops to kindergartners." He snickers and holds a hand over his mouth.

“Really?” She tilts her head. “No Devil horns? No pitchforks? Nothing?”

"Not even a tail! Wears a white suit and top hat, carries a cane. Has these little-" He gestures to his cheeks. "-spots on his face. He can't be more the five-ten either. Guy's a lot shorter than I expected."

“Oh my god, that sounds...” She starts giggling. “That sounds _hilarious,_ oh..Oh my...” She starts laughing harder, her eye closing and her smile growing wide.

"I know right?" He snickers along with her. "We live in fear of this guy our whole lives and here he is just - dapper man who looks more human than we do." He shakes his head. "Makes you wonder how we got it so wrong up there, you know?"

“I know!” She wipes a tear of mirth from her eye as she grins up at him, moving to start walking backwards just to face him. “I mean, I wasn’t at all expecting to be turned into a cyclops when I died! I wasn’t expecting Hell to be a big city! I wasn’t expecting The Devil to be _any_ of what you just told me! What’s next?!”

"Did you know there's jungles and all that outside of the City?" Angel's grin widens at the joy on her face. "Deserts too. Mountains. All sorts of stuff." 

“You’re _kidding._ ” Her jaw drops, and if it weren’t for the medical kit, she probably would’ve had her hands go to her cheeks.

"Not at all!" He gestures for her to move a little to his right and she shifts in time for a couple to walk by them on the street. "If you get to some of the taller building's, you can see them way out in the distance. There's a few places you can find photos too. Every summer, there's tourists."

“Wow...I had no idea. Is it anything like Earth?” She tilts her head.

"Ah, kinda?" He thinks about it. "Sometimes the plants seem to move, but it looks about the same from a distance. Maybe less colors?"

“Huh...” She frowns at that, wondering what kind of plants that were capable of _moving._ She takes a moment to spin back around, her eyes scanning the streets, before she blinks. “Ah, we’re almost there.” She spins back around, her expression dropping into that of nervousness. “Real quick, uh...I’m pretty sure my friend that I’m taking care of is..uh...kind of running from one of the big gangs in the city? Hence why those thugs were gonna shoot me; they think I’m hiding him....which I am?”

Angel Dust blinks at her and takes that all in, then nods slowly. "Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. Is he causin' troubles with you? Or is it just the gangs?"

She blinks at that, waving her free hand rapidly. “Oh, no no no! Not at all! It’s just the gang! Trust me!” She takes a deep breath, realizing that her voice was getting a bit too loud. “I, Hmmm, ok...If you want to meet him, you can. He should be fine, meeting you, I just gotta tell him first.” She hesitates for a moment. “Gotta...Gotta stress one thing? I dunno if it’s because some of some trauma or because of an illness, but he tends to...lapse into these fits, and when he does, he...” She hesitates again, then shakes her head. “It shouldn’t happen now, but, just a warning.”

He raises a brow, but nods. "Alright. I got you. If anything happens, I'll be prepared to get the heck outta dodge. That what some of the drugs are for? In case he freaks out or something?"

She glances back down at the kit, remembering the broken bottles, the trashed cabinets, the empty vials and tainted syringes, frowning. “..Yeah, I think so.” She shakes her head, then turns to start walking, leading him in between the space between two large buildings, and though it’s large enough to walk through, it’s a bit snug, leading to a few brushes against the brick walls. “Careful of the mess. It can get a bit dirty back here.”

"Sure, sure. I been in places like this before." He twists himself so he's practically walking sideways, to keep his suit jacket clean, of course.

“I’d ask why, but that’s your business.” She slowly makes her way between the walls and out into a more open clearing, containing nothing more than a small sidewalk lined with grass patches, leading up to a small wooden shack that looked a touch worn down, the rain gutter hanging on by a thread, plates of the roof missing, and glass windows stained with rust and dirt. She quickly runs up toward the door to the shack, making sure to open it very gingerly, and even when she let it go, it still wobbled precariously, as if barely hanging on by a thread. She knocks thrice on the doorway, before calling into her house. “Alastor? I’m back! And I have a guest, if that’s ok!”

Angel Dust steps up behind her, hesitantly holding a hand out for the door in case it falls over. A voice further in the house responds, but he can't make out the words. "Geez. You really got a fixer upper on your hands, doll."

She shrugs sheepishly, grinning weakly. “Heh...It’s the best I can do. I don’t exactly get paid to patch people up, you know?” She looks back toward the voice, before lifting up a finger. “Could you wait here a second?”

He looks down at her, and nods after a short pause. "Sure thing. Take your time."

She nods before walking further in the house, kit still in hand. “Alastor? Where are you?”

"The guest bedroom." His voice comes from the room she had left him in, the same one she had patched him up in a few days ago. 

She quickly makes her way towards it, tapping her fist against the door before peeking her head through. Alastor sits on the edge of the bed, pushing his fringes into place and letting his ears twitch occasionally. He blearily looks over at Alice as she inches inside the room. "I've been awake on and off. Nothing to be worried about."

“Feeling any better? Any worse? Is your illness acting up?” She pauses after a moment. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

"No, no, I'm fine." He closes his eyes for a moment and covers his mouth as he yawns. "Merely a little tired. I've been awake for a while now."

“Right, right...” She pauses again. “Do you want to get up? I brought a guest here but you don’t need to meet them if you don’t want to...” She shifts. “He isn’t bad, as far as I can tell. Saved my life, actually.”

Alastor's eyes widen and an odd, staticky clicking noise comes from him. He lowers his hands and leans forward. " _Saved_ you? What happened? I saw your note in the kitchen about the Market. Did someone give you any problems?"

She blinks at the sound of the click, and she raises her hands, shaking her head. “No! No, not in the Market, no! It was actually better than I thought! Found a nice lady who actually is a doctor too, and we had a nice chat!” She smiles at the mention of the woman in the Market, but then her grin starts to fall. “But, well...I...” Now her expression looks both ashamed and nervous. “I...may have let a detail about you slip, and some gang members must’ve heard me because...next thing I know, they’re all around me and...Imayhavehadagunpressedtomyhead?”

He stares for a long moment, not moving, either processing the information or trying to figure out a response. "...But you're alright now, and this guest of yours helped you with them?"

She nods once, twice. “Yeah. Saved me, walked home with me, and...He wasn’t afraid of the gang members, so I don’t think he cares about them.” She shifts. “I think we can trust him, you know?”

He slowly nods, and stands from the bed. "If he stood up against one of the gangs without caring, I can only imagine he's a good sport. I'd like to meet him."

She nods once. “Right. You guys can meet in the kitchen, if you want?”

"Sounds perfect." He lets his grin widen an inch and walks toward her, steady if not a little sluggish.

She grins at the sight of him moving around, making sure to give him a quick look over for any kind of sway or odd pupil dilation, before turning and walking back towards the front area of the house. “Ok, uh...Angel, right? You can come in!”

"Angel? How cute." Alastor chuckles as he moves toward the kitchen, taking his seat at the little table and wrapping his hands around a long cold cup of coffee he had set there.

"Ooh, nice place. Looks a lot more cozy on the inside than I was expecting." New York accent, Alastor picks out. Not a modern one though. "There's a place down on Sixth Street that can help with the couch, you know."

“Heh, thanks, I’ll try to keep that in mind later on. I might be moving out of here if everything goes according to plan.” Alice soon walks into the room, dragging a stool over to the table to hop up on top of it, grin looking much more relaxed as she finally sets the kit down and begins to sort through it.

There was the sound of clacking shoes, sharp against the wooden floorboards, and a figure appears in the doorway, arms vaguely crossed, but when they catch sight of Alastor, they widen slightly, a brow raising. “Damn. To be fucking honest I was just expecting some old joe-schmoe that got beat up for snatching booze, but this?” He gestures a hand toward Alastor. “Gotta say, full honesty here, you’re quite the looker.”

Alastor blinks at the demon, halfway to taking a sip of his coffee, and gives him a quick once over. Mismatched eyes, one gold tooth, pink stripes and freckles, taller than him - only somewhat of a feat in Hell, if he was being honest - suit and bowtie, form fitting shorts, thigh high boots with solid heels. Alastor rolls his eyes as it all clicks and takes his sip of coffee. "I'm not interested."

Angel’s grin only widens, and he lets out a chuckle, moving to sit down in the seat opposite. “No worries, no worries, I know when to leave a fella alone. Honestly I’m still technically on the clock so I’m more than fine with this.” He extends a hand towards him for a handshake. “Angel Dust. New York. 1947.”

He raises a brow and sets his mug down, and takes the hand after a split second of silence. "Alastor. New Orleans. 1933." He pulls his hand away as soon as the first shake is done and over with.

Angel blinks after a moment, and his expression shifts into something looking like that of confusion, confusion tinged with something else, and his eyes narrow, his hand slowly curling into a loose fist as it pulls back. Alastor tilts his head at the confusion, and then lets his smile sharpen and eyes narrow in return. So some people _did_ still react to the year. It had been quite a while since he had stumbled onto anyone even remotely close to his own age. And, if he had his years straight, '47 was still close enough for the drama to have been settling. "I heard you helped the little one here in a time of need. I can only imagine how much it's already been said, but thank you for interfering."

Angel’s expression was still filled with that same confusion, that same tentative wonder that seemed both curious and hesitant, and after a moment, his voice crackles to life once more. “...Well, those idiots were on my turf anyway, and I sure didn’t want them making a mess of things. Bad for my business, you know?”

"Of course. The gangs _have_ been rather adventurous recently." The beginnings of a cough tickle his throat and he brings his mug up to his lips again.

"Definitely more active," Alice mutters.

"Hm. I should have warned you about the Black Market. There are better days to go looking for medicine." He turns away slightly and clears his throat. "Erm. Excuse me."

Alice blinks at that, looking towards him with a frown. You ok?”

"I'm fine." Alastor waves a hand gently. "Just a little scratch in the throat."

“Ok, just making sure. A cough can easily tear something if you’re not careful.” She goes back to sorting through the kit. “Luckily I managed to get everything that you touched back, and, judging by the size of this thing, even more.”

Angel raises a brow at that, resting his cheek in his palm, eyes flicking back up toward Alastor. “So, how long exactly has the kid been taking care of ya?“

"A few days." He looks to Angel for a moment, then back at the vials and bottles in the case. "I'm dealing with a bit of snapback, if you know what I mean."

Angel nods after a moment, wincing. “Oof, yeah, that’s pretty tough. I know a guy that had a pretty bad case of it. Snapped back so damn hard his arm got pretty much blown off his body. Damn near had to slap him into a chicago overcoat, it was that bad.”

Alastor chuckles at that. "New demon, I imagine? Or merely someone who doesn't pay enough attention to their surroundings?"

“Yeah, he was one of them new ones. Died from alcoholism I think. Fucker didn’t know it was possible to die again.” He can’t help but chuckle at that. “I didn’t see it happen, but from what I hear, the look on his face was hilarious. Everyone was laughing, even the fucking idiots that he was lobbing fireballs at. Whole fight just fucking stopped dead in it’s tracks.”

"Heheheh.... I can only imagine. So many upstarts out in Hell these days, thinking their immediate powers are something to show off about." He props his chin on the back of his hand. "If I were there, I would have been laughing right with them, if not commentating on the whole affair. Would have been quite the riot to see."

“Commentating?” He tilts his head, grin still wide, showing off perfect pointed fangs. “What, like some kind of news reporter?”

"I was thinking something more along the lines of sports entertainment, but I suppose both would do as proper analogies."

“Sports entertainment...” His eyes narrow a bit, and the grin seems to falter for a moment. “...What exactly do you do down here anyway? Everybody’s got a job somehow. What’s yours?”

"Oh, I'm in the radio business." His smile sharpens again. 1933 and radios. And a deadly smile to go along with it. Dangerous territory. "I do a bit of everything, though I specialize in news and rec reporting."

“Huh...” Angel’s Dust’s grin falls fully for a moment, and he shifts a bit, his lower pair of arms coming up to fold their hands, resting them on the edges of the table. He’s quiet, before he lets a grin come back to his face. “And how does a guy like you, little Mr. Radio Man, get the gangs jumping on your ass?”

He shrugs lightly, sipping more coffee. "I report on the wrong things, I suppose. Become vocal enough and there will always be someone looking to shut you down. Hell isn't much different from Earth in that way."

“Heh, I hear that.” His upper hands open in a half shrug, half “what can you do” type of gesture. “I try to stay out of it as much as I can, but sometimes it just fucking feels like they’re everywhere, you know?”

"Very true." Alastor sighs softly, eyes closing. "If I didn't love radio as much as I do, I'd probably be off doing something else entirely. But I simply can't leave it behind."

“Yeah, I bet you can’t...” The words trail off, a barely heard mutter.

One of his eyes open at that, and then settle halfway. "Do you listen to radio at all? Or are you more of a picture show person?"

“I used to, kinda, when I was a kid. Mostly just to know about the weather and if I had to go outside with a coat on or not. Television wasn’t around until I got down here, and I must admit, it’s pretty damn cool.”

Alastor shrugs. "I can't stand it. Something about it all feels incredibly fake. It lacks the passion you get from radio shows, and the imagination as well."

“Eh, tomato, potato.” He shrugs again. “Eventually technology’s gotta evolve, but that’s as far as I go on the whole “which is better” debacle. I mean, I don’t really have room to talk, I ain’t got any idea how any of it works.”

He shrugs again, humming softly, but doesn't say anything else. Most people held similar opinions, even the fans of his own broadcast. It was a disheartening concept for him, that everyone was leaning toward radio dying when he could so easily prove them all wrong.

Alice pipes up, bottles of assorted medicine next to her, occasionally picking one up and putting it down in a different spot. “I listened to radio all the time, mostly for music. My dad had these records and stuff and he would play jazz music during thunderstorms and stuff so I wouldn’t get scared.”

Angel raises a brow, his grin growing back, but this time more genuine. “Oh yeah?” 

She grins at that, looking up to nod. “Yeah. He had a real good singing voice. You know, uh..Frank? Frank Sinatra? Could sing along to all his hits.”

Alastor's ears perk at the mention of Alice listening to radio in her life. All the way in the fifties? That was good news to hear. He taps his chin at the name. "Sinatra... I've heard the name. A lot of people like him, but I've never gotten my hands on a real record of his."

Alice grins at that, a hand coming up to her chin. “Ohh, I don’t know if Hell has any records but if they do, I’m gonna try to see if they have any of his stuff! Gah, I don’t even know which one I’d go for first! His songs are that good!”

Alastor waves a hand at her. "Oh, I know a place that sells authentic records from Earth. Steep prices, but it's worth it. I'll take you someday."

“REALLY?!” Her eye gets wide at that and her pupil somehow gets bigger and the delight in her face is palpable. Angel is heard snickering to himself and his smile is dripping with amusement.

"Of course, dear. Someone as nifty as you would be able to look through all the wares in a quarter the time it takes me to go through one shelf." He chuckles, grin both soft and wide.

Within an instant, she’s suddenly on top of the table in front of him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders in a giant (as giant as one as small as her can get anyway) hug, almost spilling the mug of coffee out of his hands. “ _Oh, Thank you, thank you, thank you! You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve heard an actual record! It feels like it’s been ages!_ ”

" _Oof-_ " His entire body tenses, eyes wide and smile stretched as static hisses about him for a few seconds. He catches a look from Angel, then blinks a few times and awkwardly pats her back. "Like I said... Nifty."

Alice blinks, realizing what she just did, and pulls back with a shocked look on her face. “Oh! Oh, uh...right...” She awkwardly brushes off his shoulders. “Don’t..like to be touched, right. Sorry.” She slowly climbs her way off the table and sits back down at her stool, the bottles she had been sorting somehow not knocked over in the slightest. She looks downwards, cheeks flushing, eye facing the floor, arms folded. 

Angel Dust chuckles softly, his smile a bit more soft. “No worries, kiddo. You’re fine. Right?” His eyes flick up to Alastor.

"Of course." He forces his smile to soften, though he couldn't bring his shoulders back down. "Bound to happen occasionally. There's nothing to worry about."

There was a soft nod from Alice, and a softer nod from Angel, before he leans back in his seat. There was a small, high-pitched ringing, before he blinks, straightening up and pulling back his glove on his upper left hand, revealing a wrist-watch wrapped around it. He lets out a sigh, and lets his glove snap back into place. “Sorry to say, but I have to take off. Work and shit, you know?” He stands up, offers a hand again to Alastor. “Pleasure meeting you.”

"Likewise." He takes his hand, the movement thawing the rest of his body back into practiced ease. "Be careful out there. Wouldn't want to get on the bad side of the mob."

“Eh, you could say I’m used to it.” He shrugs, and turns, but pauses, turning back to Alice, and crouching down to her level. “Hey, kiddo. I’ll be sure to let you know if I find a record player for ya. Can’t play good ol’ Frank without a record player, you know?” He grows a grin.

That gets Alice to look up, and her own grin grows, letting out a soft giggle. “Heh...Yeah, that’s a good point...Thanks, Angel.” 

“No problem. And work on coming up with a new name, ok? Can’t go giving it to every softie who saves you, you know.” He gives her a small pat on the head.

That prompts a giggle, and she lifts a hand to her hair. “Hehe. Ok, ok, I got that.”

“Good.” He stands back up, glancing to Alastor and gives a finger gun gesture with a click of the tongue. “Ciao.” He turns and walks out of the room, the clacking of his heels ringing through the air.

Alastor raises a brow at the gesture, then sighs and shakes his head as Angel leaves. "Strange demon, that one. But a good heart. Hopefully." He stands and walks over to the sink, washing out his mug.

“I liked him.” Alice’s voice is a bit small. “Gives me hope, you know? That some people down here aren’t so bad. I mean, look at you. You’re probably the nicest person I ever met in my life.”

He chuckles, holding back the impulse of telling her how much that amused him. A later date, maybe. He exhales. "He definitely seemed genuine, I'll give him that."

“Yeah.” She frowns a bit, looking in the direction of where he went. “Hope he’ll be ok. Those gangs are real nasty.”

•••

"Hey, be careful with tho- _Oof!_ "

"Now listen here, you little brat."

Angel was fairly certain one of his eyes were swollen shut. Either that or the pressure keeping his face pinned to the wall was ridiculously intense. One of his hands grabs the wrist pinning him, but he was too weak to try pulling himself free. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt pangs around his stomach and ribs. That didn't stop him from stamping his heel right into the foot of the man holding him. There was the sound of a strangled curse, and his vision momentarily turns into stars as the cracking of his bones rings through his head. When everything finally stops spinning, his jaw is aching and he tastes blood, cracking an eye open just enough to see the enraged face of that weird bat from earlier, glaring down at him with a gaze of pure venom. His other hand held a knife, a switchblade, and it glinted dangerously in the light of the blood-red moon. “I’m this close...” He holds the point of the knife right towards his eye. “ _This_ fucking close to stabbing you in the god damn face, you hear me?”

"Loud and clear, boss." His words come out slightly slurred, and he spits out a glob of blood, staring warily at the knife's point. "So what do ya want again?"

“Where is the little lady hiding? Where is she? Where did she go? And is that radio _freak_ with her?”

"Little lady? Mind being a little more specific? There's a lot of little ladies in Hell."

“The lady with the one eye. The lady _you were just with._ The lady that you just had to go and be the big proud _hero_ for!” The blade inches closer. “Well, guess what, pal? You work for Valentino, you’re under his watch, his _pay_ , and that means you’re on _our_ side. There is no hero time for you.”

"The hell you talkin' about?" Angel shifts, swallowing at the sight of the knife getting closer. "You work for Vox. The hell you mean we're on the same side?"

The bat lets out a scoff, and his lips twist into a grin, a sadistic one. “Tch, of course you wouldn’t know, you’re just a fucking prostitute.” He pulls the knife back, just an inch, making a show of spinning it in his hands. “Well, since you don’t know, I’ll fill you in. Vox? Valentino? They’re rubbing elbows right now, shaking hands, trading goods, that sort of thing. They’re working together, and they’re planning something. Planning something big.” The knife comes to a stop. “Which means you and I are technically partners, coworkers, whatever you wanna call it. And you...” He chuckles. “You, my little spider friend, just busted a big lead on one of Vox’s more passionate projects. Screwed the whole thing up.” 

He leans closer, and presses the knife to his cheek. “Now what do you think will happen to you when we go and tell the big man what happened? Think your big boss man Valentino will protect you? Coddle you? Hm?”

Angel hisses, fighting the urge to squirm and risk cutting himself on the knife further. "Hey, hey! You said it yourself: I didn't know shit. This is all just a big misunderstanding. We can - we can work this out, alright?"

“I’m sure we can. You can start by telling us where the lady went. Where she’s hiding. Where that radio show host is. Now.” His grip on the knife becomes tighter. “Do that, and I won’t send up a word to your boss. Wait, no, your _bosses._ ”

"Okay, okay! Jeez." He pats the wall. "You mind puttin' down that knife? I'll... I'll tell you all about them, alright?"

“Not until you start talking. And all I’m hearing is a bunch of whining.“ 

"Okay! Fuckin' hell..." He huffs, remembering the excited looks on Alice's face. His promise to buy her a record player. Why did he make a promise? "She lives out in some hole in the wall near Clement's Ave. Tight entrance to one o' those old, hidden community places from way back when."

“Gimme specifics, pal. What hole? Where is it exactly? What buildings were near it?”

"I dunno! I was barely there for a minute." He tenses again as the knife inches closer. "It was all broken down and shit. Like everything else on the block. Nice on the inside though. White paint. No fence."

“Anything else? Who was in there? Who was she with?”

"It was just her and some guy. He wore all red. Sorta raggedy suit jacket. Smiled the whole time." He taps his fingers against the wall, huffing and shifting to get slightly more comfortable.

The bat’s face visibly shifts from shock to rage, before finally settling in on a cruel, cruel grin, and he chuckles to himself. “What do you know...Didn’t take him to be the type to hide behind a girl like that.” The knife taps against Angel’s cheek. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

“I don't think he's just _hiding._ " He sends a glare at him. "The girl? She's doing things to be nice. She's new. But that guy? Said he's from _1933._ He's probably some fuckin' cultist. Mentioned something about dealing with snapback though."

“Oh, yeah, we know all about that.” He grins, pulls the knife back to spin it again. “You heard what happened to that poor fucker over in your clique? Went by the name Ed?”

"There's a lotta Eds who get into a lotta stupid shit." Angel rolls his eyes. "Gonna have to be more specific."

“His whole squad got fucking wiped. Torn to pieces. Guts everywhere, blood painting the walls, out by the abandoned sector. I believe one of them may have had their heart ripped outta their chest?” The knife trails down to press against his shirt. “Ringing any bells?”

"Yeah, sure. Heard a rumor or two." He looks down at the knife. "You turnin' this into some kinda kink thing? 'Cause I'll be upfront with ya, I'm plenty masochistic if you're willing to pay."

“Tch.” The knife withdraws a bit, and the bat’s face drops into a disgusted grimace. “Shut the fuck up already before I cut your tongue out.” He purposefully presses a thumb down on the fresh bruise lining his jaw, digging in hard before lessening up. “Now, anything else you wanna say? Or can we conclude this?”

"I got nothing else to tell ya, bud." He rolls his eyes at the purposeful dig at his jaw.

“Hmph.” The bat finally pulls away, letting Angel slump down to the ground, turning his back and lighting a cigar. “Now was that so difficult?” He flashes a grin.

Angel picks himself up and brushes off his clothes. "Yeah, yeah. What are ya gonna do with them anyways?"

“Hmm..” He tilts his head for a moment, as if considering the question, but then scoffs. “I ain’t telling ya.” He starts walking, before there was a slight pause. “Oh yeah, by the way, don’t go blabbing to anyone not in the loop about that whole alliance thing. You do that, and I’m sure you’ll find yourself with a bullet in your mouth. And that’ll be the least of your worries.”

"....Yeah, sure. I ain't sayin' nothing. I don't even know what you're talking about." He huffs, crossing his arms as he watches him leave. Just a prostitute, right. It wasn't his place to get involved in all of this gang activity. He really shouldn't care about some nobody demons he only just met. 

He raises a hand to his cheek, looking down at the ground, frowning as the sight of that little kid smiling up at him comes to mind. He doesn’t even know how old she is. She easily could’ve been as old as his younger sister for all he knows. And he just went and gave her up to the wolves. And as sketchy as Alastor is, as potentially powerful as he could be, he wasn't in great shape. Getting jumped by mercenary thugs would be the worst option for the both of them. And who knew what would happen afterward if both Vox and Valentino wanted the guy. He clenches his fist, feeling the conflict bubble in his guts like a vile poison. Was he really the type of person to just give up a little girl and a wounded man to the wrath of _two_ tyrannical mob gangs?

There was a long, long pause, and Angel considers. He considers, ponders, wonders about that question, for what felt like eternity. He feels a sinking feeling in his stomach, feels the stinging conflict slowly die away, and he lets out a sigh. “...Fuck...”

He turns his back toward Clement Avenue, his shoes making full clacks against the cracked pavement, hands drifting to his pockets, his jaw throbbing idly. 

Guess he was.

•••

Lucifer didn't know what he was doing. Well, he knew what he was doing, but he barely had a clue how. He also knew he was great at winging things, but he _also_ knew he preferred knowing everything before diving into a problem. But on top of all that, he knew this was one of the times he wouldn't know everything, and the price of failing could very well mean ruining everything he had worked for in his entire life.

In short: parenting may suck, but he sucked at parenting.

He walks, hands tucked behind his back, down the halls of the castle he had made alongside his wife and stifles the urge to turn tail and go back into hiding. His shoes click against the floor and for once he wishes he could be silent and _not_ have a glitzy entrance, so they soften until even he could barely hear them. A few imps and demon servants see him and avert their eyes or scatter. The paintings and pictures on the wall avert their eyes as well. He makes it to the end of a long, winding hall, turns to a soft, pastel, reddish-pink door plastered in bright stickers. He raises his fist, hesitates, takes a breath, reminds himself he could handle anything and everything, and swallows his pride (as much as he could, anyways).

And he knocks.

The knock echoed through the hallway like the clanging of a funeral bell, and any and all people who would’ve been around to hear it immediately turn tail and run the other way for fear of what could possibly happen. The paintings stood stationary on the wall, the ones with faces having visibly sweaty and nervous expressions, while the ones without faces were doing their damndest to emulate a sweaty and nervous expression. 

There was no response for a moment. Then, softly, came a voice, low, but thankfully lacking tears or anger. “Who is it?”

"It's..." Lucifer takes another breath. "It's me, darling. Dad."

There was a pause. “What do you want?”

He winces, but takes solace in the neutrality of the tone. At least she wasn't telling him to leave. "I, er, wanted to see how you were doing. And to... well... apologize." 

“...I’m fine.”

"That's... good." He shifts. "Would it be possible for me to come in? If you're comfortable with that. If you want."

There was no response for a moment. Then the door clicks as the knob turns. “...Come in.”

"Thank you, sweetie." He gently puts a hand on the door and pushes it open, tentatively peeking his head inside before taking a step forward. He keeps one hand behind his back.

The room was wide, spacious, luxurious, as was the rest of the palace, but unlike most of the rooms, this one had a distinct Charlie-type touch. The walls were covered in stickers, posters, hand-made drawings, the floor littered with half-open books despite the presence of several ornate bookshelves, and even the lights above had somehow been modified to glow a soft magenta hue. The bed was covered in giant fluffy pillows, plush animals, blankets, and he could see the figures of Razzle and Dazzle resting upon it, though they both lift their heads the moment they see Lucifer enter the door. They silently point towards the stairs lining the wall of the room, the stairs that slowly spiral along the curve of the wall and into the ceiling of the room. Lucifer gives the twin guardians a soft smile and looks up the stairs at the landing far above, capped by a full glass dome that provide a complete 360 degree view of Hell. He could just barely see a tuft of blonde hair from where he stands. Exhaling softly, he walks past Razzle and Dazzle and maneuvers his way around the maze of books and papers and pens. The room was a mess, as usual, but Lucifer really had no place to say anything. Charlie's level of organization far outmatched her father's. It was something he had always taken pride in for her. In all honesty, there were very few things he wasn't proud of when it came to Charlie.

He stops his thoughts there as he makes it to the first step of the staircase, and instead focuses on the pictures that greet him along the way. Charlie as a toddler, Charlie at the beach, Charlie petting a pet hellhound (certifiably non-demon, per request), Charlie after giving herself her first haircut, Charlie after seeing the royal hairdresser and getting her first bob. She was blindingly happy in each, so much that he was certain the photos themselves could light the entire room. And to think he had made her cry just a few hours ago. He holds in a chastising sigh and continues up the staircase. When he reaches the top, he’s greeted by the sight of a dark blue carpet, covered in small sigils and runes, rectangular in shape, covering most of the floor, and in the middle was a couch, a pristine red leather couch, topped with a thick fur blanket and two pillows. There was a coffee table just in front of it, and on said coffee table was a tea cup, a thin paper folder, and a record player, the needle currently flipped upwards, not playing anything.

Charlie was sitting on the couch, upright, back resting against the armrest, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was looking out toward the glass, not saying a word. Her palms were wrapped with white gauze.

"Hey, sweetie." Great start. Amazing start. He steps toward her and swallows to covertly clear his throat. "I wanted to apologize for raising my voice earlier. I really shouldn't have done that, and I'll do better in the future. And I'm also sorry for using my powers on you. I... stepped out of line and should never have done that. It is - incredibly invasive and I promise I'll never do it again. Even if you do happen to be lobbing fireballs at me for target practice. Heheh."

She doesn’t speak, her eyes half-lidded, sullen, and for a moment, it almost looks as if she won’t even acknowledge that he’s there. Then, upon hearing his apology, they slowly flick towards him. She slowly reaches out to pat the part of the couch that wasn’t occupied, a silent invitation.

The muscles in his shoulders relax an inch and he steps closer, finally taking his other hand out from behind his back as he moves around the coffee table. "I brought you a slice of apple pie, in case you were hungry. I'll leave it on the table if you want any." He sets it down next to her cup of tea and takes a seat beside her, leaving a little space between them.

Her eyes flick toward the pie, the crust coated with whipped cream, just how she likes it, and she finally lets herself sigh. “....I’m sorry too. For...breaking your chess piece. And burning your map.”

"Oh, don't worry about it." He waves a hand, though he did feel a slight bit irritated at the thought of repairs. Time was always working against him. "Vox has already changed his wardrobe three times since I made that piece. It's about time I made a new one. And the map can always be remade. Maybe with less yarn. Ooh! I could order one that's topographical, with the buildings and hills all in three-dee!" He spreads his hands out as he says it, picturing the details of the product. "And there could be little trenches for the rivers, and tiny little trees to scale." He pulls his legs up onto the sofa and props an elbow on the backrest, chin in hand as he stares out at the City - _his_ City. "Mm. It's all replaceable, I suppose." His brows draw together and he looks back at her. "But you aren't, darling. I really am sorry."

She raises her head as he starts rambling, watching the way his infectious grin works it’s way back onto his face, and she can’t help but let her own lips curl up a bit too, giggling under her breath. But then came the apology again, and her grin drops back down, and she almost feels tempted to try and explain everything that’s been buzzing around inside her head again, but just the sight of him staring at her like that is enough to get her to hesitate. She finally nods again. “...I..” She sighs. “...It’s ok...” She looks off to the side, over the spine of the couch. “I just...I think I just get...frustrated sometimes. I don’t know why.”

"Life is frustrating," he says softly, looking back out at the City. "Things don't always make sense, but that's alright. People don't make sense either. Not really. When you get down to it." He goes quiet for a moment, watching as lights flicker on and off in an apartment complex in the distance. "You have a really, _really_ big heart, Charlie. And I truly admire that about you. But it worries me too. Not-" His gaze snaps back to her. "Not that it excuses anything. I'm not making myself a parachute here. Simply stating facts. But I..." He sighs. "There's a lot you have yet to learn, and things are very complicated, and I don't want you to get yourself hurt, especially emotionally. Seeing the good in someone is great, but being blinded by it... That's a different kind of pain I never want you to go through."

“...I know.” She nods softly, her heart swelling with the desperate need to say more, to hope and beg and _plead_ that her father can just try to understand what she wants to know. But she also knows that it will just lead to more fights, and she just doesn’t have the energy for it, not right now.

Lucifer smiles at the simple words, but can't bring himself to look back to her yet. His daughter, his one daughter, his young daughter, his only child. "Charlie, I want you to know the world isn't fair. It was never made to be fair, or, at least, the end result wasn't. It's all...." He takes in a breath, and then lets it out as he waves at the City, at the highs and the lows of it, at the obscene bright spots and mysterious dark spots. "Mismatched socks poorly stitched together? Hm. That made more sense in my head. But you know what I mean. It's beautiful in its own way, and cozy at times, but there are holes, and sometimes you can see them and sometimes you can't and sometimes the holes are meant to be there, for whatever reason. And you have to be careful of those holes or else... something bad will happen, in some abstract way. Or not abstract!" He shrugs, blinking at his own wandering train of thought. "Who knows? Life is confusing that way."

“...So...when God made the universe he essentially made a pair of ugly socks with holes in them?” That gets her smiling, and it’s that sort of smile one only gets when someone nearby says something really stupid or amusing or both and it needs to be repeated for it to set in as to just how stupid or silly it really is.

Lucifer snorts and drops his head over the back of the sofa. He giggles at the wording for a moment before pulling himself upright and smiling at her. He holds his chin up. "Yes. That is precisely what happened. I watched him as he did it, and all the books are wrong!"

“Dad, you change that story so many times I don’t even know which one is real or not. One time you told me the universe was a chicken and the earth was an egg that it “shat out”, as you so eloquently put it.”

"Well, that one's fairly accurate, if my memory holds." His grin widens, a chuckle following it, and he relaxes a bit more against the sofa. "Oh, how are your hands? You put that ointment on them that Mom got you?"

“Yeah, I did.” She wriggles her fingers a bit. “Razzle and Dazzle helped wrap them up.”

"That's nice of them." He looks over her hands while she holds them out. "They've been good too? I know they were fighting a few weeks ago. They look better now."

“Yeah, they managed to work it out. Good thing too; I don’t think I’ve ever seen Razzle that mad at, well, _anyone_ before.”

"Oh, it was that bad?" He blinks a few times. "Well, I suppose siblings can get a bit rough with each other. Maybe they need some time apart? I know that sometimes helps."

“Maybe.” She shrugs, looking back over the City, the flickering lights, the blood-red moon, the distant horizons. “It is kinda...boring in here, sometimes.”

"Hmm, I suppose so." He shifts a little. "I was thinking about that actually. I still have to talk to your mother about it, but maybe it's about time we let you out of the house with some more freedom."

She blinks at that. “...R...Really?”

" _Within_ reason." Lucifer holds out a hand, though he smiles all the same. "Body guards, obviously. At least Razzle and Dazzle. No deep city anything, no edges of the city, no war zones - nothing too dangerous. And you'd have to be careful! Don't take any shit from any demon, no matter what they say. And don't make any deals. And don't eat or drink anything anyone gives you unless you know them and see what they put in it. And call me or Mom if anything happens."

She blinks again, staring, before her grin starts to grow into a more joyful expression. “Are..Are you serious? You’re being serious right now? Like, this...This isn’t some kind of joke, right?”

His grin curls, lopsided in a way that typically meant he was happy and worried and confused all in one. "I'm being serious. I think you'd benefit from seeing more of Hell, getting some real experience from the people. But it _is_ dangerous and I haven't talked to Lilith about it, so don't get too excited. I imagine she'll be fine with it too, but I'd like to break it to her slow. Ish. When she isn't dealing with such a busy work schedule."

“Oh, right, so I can’t...I can’t go out right this second. Right, gotcha, gotcha.” She nods, her eyes flicking red for a split second, taking a deep breath and letting it out. “I’m calm.”

"I'm sorry, sweetie." He offers a small smile. "You know we have to be careful."

“I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. It’s just...You haven’t let me out of the house on my own since the 1800’s!” She waves a hand toward the world outside. “How can I _not_ be excited about finally going out to see everything again?”

"I know, of course, I can only imagine." Lucifer laughs lightly. "I sent your mother a line, so hopefully she'll be able to wrap up work soon."

“God, I hope.” She finally leans over to pick up the plate of the apple pie, stabbing into it with her fork. “The last time I wanted to ask her something it took her 5 whole days to even say anything back.” 

"I know, darling, I know. But she has a busy schedule with the meetings and conferences and all." He gently reaches over and tucks a trail of hair behind her ear.

“I know, Dad. It just gets frustrating. I’m not saying she needs to drop everything to tend to my needs.” She takes a bite of the pie. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like talking to the Von Eldriches all day. I’m _glad_ I don’t have to do _that._ ”

"Ugh, you and me both." He rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "I don't know how she does it. Even I don't have that kind of patience!"

“I _know!_ God, I can’t stand any of them. Especially Helsa. Ugh, she’s such a _bitch!_ ” Her eyes go crossed and her voice rises into a nasally, overly dramatic tone. “ _Ooh, look at me, I’m an alien presence from beyond time and space so that must mean I’m so damn better than the literal princess of Hell!_ ”

"Oh, that's a pretty good impression of her." His smirk curls. "She always was rather arrogant. Don't know how she made it this long like that."

Her eyes uncross, and she sighs. “Beats me. I remember them moving in back in 1466. I was, like, 5 at the time.” She shrugs. “Were they ever around during the first 7 days?”

"Hmm..... No, I don't think so. But time works weirdly for them." He taps his chin. "Could be they operate on a different timeline, if I'm honest."

“Ugh. How the Hell did they ever make it past God’s radar?”

He laughs at that, snickering and covering his mouth as he snorts. " _God's radar!_ I'll have to remember that one."

She smiles at that, but gives his arm a slap. “I’m asking a question! You know the Eldriches! They’re weird inhuman monsters with more mouths than _brains_ and, according to what you just said, somehow exist out of the timeline of the fucking universe! How did God never see them coming! Surely he woulda, I dunno, sent in the Angels or something?”

He chuckles more, shrugging. "I don't know. Maybe he did see them? Or maybe he can't? I mean, we always said he made _this_ universe. Nothing about others. Although I suppose that's different from alternate timelines...." His brows twist, but his grin only widens at the conundrum.

She stares for a moment, but then groans and leans her head back on the spine of the couch. “Ugh, Dad, please, it’s already complicated enough being the daughter of a demigod, don’t go blowing my mind with stuff about time and space.”

"Well, you asked." He chuckles a little more, but shifts to put his feet on the ground. "But I'll restrain myself from anymore philosophy for the day."

“Thank you. I know I love talking about it as much as you do but sometimes it makes my head hurt.” She takes another bite of her pie. “Can only imagine how humans feel.”

"Tch. It's worse trying to talk them out of the rumors they take as fact." He rolls his eyes again. "They'll argue with you for hours and hours like it's something impossible to understand."

“Hmm...” Her gaze turns thoughtful at that. “...I don’t know. Impossibility always seemed kind of...flimsy to me. I mean, look at me.” She gestures to herself. “I’m as impossible as you could get. Demon and angel mashed into one?”

Lucifer's smile softens and he reaches over again to mess with her hair. "My impossible little girl. Keep that sentiment with you. It'll get you further than you'd think."

“Pfft.” She playfully bats away his hand, suppressing a giggle. “How do you know?”

"Because it's the same thing that got me such a wonderful family."

That gets her to finally let out a laugh, and she puts down the plate to lean over and give him a hug. “You’re such a big sap, you know that?”

"Worst kept secret in Hell." He wraps his arms around her, rubbing her back softly. He lets out a small breath, relieved. 

“You’re damn right it is.” She let’s her eyes close for a moment, chin resting on his shoulder, then lets them open again, her gaze once more wandering to the flickering lights of the city beyond, the skies beyond the buildings dotted with the faint figures of flying warships. 

She lets her grin drop slightly, the thoughts and worries and fears of all that she did not know still festering in the back of her mind.

•••

The words come out of nowhere, and when they do, it was enough to have Alice blink from where she sat, knelt in front of her cabinet, working on sorting the freshly bought bottles and extra supplies back into their proper places. She twists her head to stare at Alastor where he stood in the doorway, her brow furrowing, feeling her lips turn down in a confused frown. “...What? _Leave?_ Why would we leave? W-..Where would we even go?”

"We wouldn't have to go far." He looks toward the window, seeing the ramshackle house next door. "There's only two other people in the houses around us. We could use almost any house for a short amount of time. But we will have to leave."

“What makes you say that?” She places the bottle she was holding onto it’s proper place, before turning to face him. “If you’re worried about the gang, they didn’t follow me home. They don’t know where we are.”

Alastor catches her gaze for a moment before looking away, the simple motion giving him a sullen look despite the smile plastered on his face. "Angel was wearing Valentino's colors, Alice. He may have been nice, but it's too much of a risk to trust him with how active the gangs have been."

That gets her expression to drop from confusion to shock. “..What?” Her face slowly slips into a growing worry. “H-How do you know? I mean...If he’s part of one of the gangs, then he wouldn’t have helped me.”

"Unless he meant to get your trust and follow you home, and then leave and return with more people armed with assault rifles." He sighs softly. "He also recognized my year and occupation. Valentino's men are the ones who tried to kill me when you found me. If he's with them, then it explains the recognition."

“But....But he...” Her voice falters, and the expression on her face is one that makes his chest twist a little. It wasn’t a crushed look, nor was it absolutely distraught, but it still held the look of sadness, of shock, of a betrayal that only came when one wasn’t expecting it. So young. Alice was so young and so new to life in Hell. His brows furrow, and though he himself couldn't share the same pain, too desensitized and expectant of it after all these years, he couldn't help but pity her. Learning the rules was never fun. Best to do it quick in his opinion.

"Maybe on Earth, there were more people who did what they did out of a place of kindness, but that's something rarely found down in Hell. It's safest to expect the worst of people, even if you are doing your best."

She doesn’t respond for a moment, instead looking back towards her medical supplies, then back towards him, her expression shifting to a more conflicted one, a more thoughtful one. “....I...I don’t...” She sighs. “I don’t know about that.” She shakes her head, looking back up towards him. “But it doesn’t matter right now. You say we need to leave? When, according to you, we could be jumped at any second?”

He tilts his head, one brow cocked. "I'm saying they know where we are, and however long it takes for Angel to get to Valentino's men is as long as we have to leave."

“They also could set a trap. If they jumped me when I was all on my own, walking home, then I wouldn’t be surprised if they might try to jump us the moment we _leave_ too.”

He shakes his head. "Walking to another house before they get here might be our best chance to avoid that. We don't have to go all too far. Just far enough that we're too obvious to be seen."

She’s silent for a moment, looking back at her medical supplies, then towards the bed, then back at Alastor. “...Are you positive that leaving is the best choice?”

"It's what I've always done. And it's worked, for the most part." He shrugs. "There's always a chance it won't work, but that chance only increases the longer you stay in one spot."

That gets her to raise a brow. “How long exactly have you been running from these people?”

Alastor blinks. "From Valentino? Only a few years. I got sloppy in fifty-six and they got a picture of me. But I've always had competitors, what with my radio station and all. I go by a pseudonym on my broadcasts for a reason."

“Hmm..” She finally lets out a sigh, and nods. “Alright, alright. If you think that it’s the best to leave...”

"I can help you carry some of your belongings, if you'd like. It shouldn't-" One of his ears twitch. "-be too much of an issue." He looks over his shoulder.

Alice frowns and steps toward him. "You really shouldn't. You're still-"

"Wait." He holds a hand out, one finger raised, and then brings it to his mouth. His ears twitch again.

"...Alastor?" Her voice comes as a whisper and she takes a few more steps toward him. He says nothing, closing his eyes.

_Click... Click, click, click, click...._

His eyes shoot wide open. "I miscalculated." He looks down at her, already feeling the adrenaline kicking into his bloodstream.

"What are you-"

Snaps and bangs surround them as bullets tear into the house, glass breaking, wood thunking and creaking, dry wall acting like paper sheets for a pencil to poke holes through. Alastor crouches and clutches Alice to his chest, then quickly shoves them both behind a wall. His cloak flutters for half a second before a burning pain crawl down his sternum and up his throat. The cloak collects flatly on the ground and he hisses air out through his teeth. He can feel Alice clutching against him, shaking, her voice ringing in a scream that’s just barely overhead past the cacophonous calamity of the bullets finding their homes in the walls surrounding them. Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling in chunks, the front door causes a massive crash as it flies off it’s hinges, and the walls become riddled with blackened holes. He feels her head slowly raise upwards to look at him, and he looks down to witness her gripping the front of his coat in a fist, tugging, tugging, yanking, her other hand extending, pointing towards a section of the floor.

He huffs through clenched teeth as he glances between her and the floor before staring at the wooden boards intently. Something. There was something she knew. About the floor? Hidden exit? Was that why she hadn't wanted to leave? His eyes lock on a thicker gap between two boards under the bed. Of course. He spins them around and presses her against the wall, then holds a hand up for her to wait. Then he does the stupid thing and dashes to the bed and starts shoving it away from the hidden entrance.

The bullets don’t stop. He can feel them whip past his cheek, his hair, feels a stinging pain and the rush of blood as one nicks the top of his ear. He feels them clang against the metal headboard, feels them sink themselves into the wooden sidings, and a few even go so far as to shred through the mattress, the pillows, causing fluff and feathers to spill outwards. He sees Alice’s face, staring in horror, in shock, petrified from where she sat, her eye filled with terror and her chest heaving with panicked breaths.

He pushes one last time before diving for the floorboards and letting his claws lengthen to more easily slot his fingers around the grooves. He tugs, barely having to use force to pull the boards out of place. The boards crumble like wood chips, the bullets still tearing through the air just above his head, and he sees what Alice had been trying to tell him. A hole, in the middle of the concrete layers underneath the floor, the rim of it uneven and jagged, as if someone had dug it using only an ice pick. The light of his eyes shone just enough to catch the sight of a floor only a few feet down below, and lining the wall just above this hole was an impromptu ladder, made up of rusted pieces of what looked to be piping. Alastor looks up to her, gesturing for her to come to him. "Come on! We have to get down here!" He flinches as a bullet grazes his back and flattens himself a little more against the ground.

She stares again, stares for a moment longer, before standing up, hunching her shoulders and running over to him, her eye already starting to water, from fear, from adrenaline, from the dust and ash raining down, he didn’t know. She looks down toward the hole, looks up at him, and gives his shoulder a shove, pointing down into the room below.

He stares at her at the motions. Maybe she just wanted him to go down first. Maybe that was what the look was about. But something in his gut told him otherwise. "You'll be right after me?" He says the words clearly, hoping to be heard through the din of the rifles.

She lifts her head, her gaze peering into his, holding something he could not discern, and she nods. Another shot grazes his arm and he curses, his adrenaline spiking again and keeping him from asking anymore questions. He darts his legs down into the hole, clumsily finds the rungs with his feet, and hurriedly climbs down into the safe, dark room below him. A quick glance around reveals that the room was completely empty and devoid of anything, the walls and ceiling lined with pipes and cement, crude and lumpy, with chunks of concrete looking as if they were about to fall away entirely. Alice stares down at him from the rim of the hole, breathing fast, hurried, and her eye began to glimmer with a new emotion, one that he had not seen cross her face before.

"Alice?" He holds his grin steady, though his brows draw together. "Come down. It's safer!"

She stares down at him, and her eye begins to fill with tears, tears that quickly stream down her face. Her head swivels around, before she momentarily dips out of sight, and he feels the vibration of the bed as it crashes onto the floor in his shoes. She comes back into view, their gazes catching, and her lips turn up in a bitter grin. “...I’m sorry.”

"Alice." Somewhere in his memory, that same bitter grin on another face bubbles to the surface. He forces his smile to widen to counteract the burning behind his eyes. "Alice, don't-!"

A bullet grazes the side of her shoulder, blood running down her arm, and that’s the last thing he sees before darkness shrouded the top of the hole, covered by the soft fabric of the bed’s mattress. 

The bullets continued for a few seconds, and then stopped. The silence was deafening.

His eyes are wide, staring up at the entrance as if he were still expecting to see Alice above him. The only light around him comes from his own eyes and teeth, and his own harsh panting sounds too loud. He'd shout if he knew how, but his jaw refuses to cooperate, and some small, long forgotten voice tells him he'd be ruining both their chances if he spoke a word. His claws clench around the rungs of the ladder, and he slowly turns his head down to stare at the ground.

Why? Why would she - why would anyone - do this for him? What did he do to make her want to save him?

A sickening wave of comfort floods him. At least the bullets wouldn't hit him down here. So long as no one decided to overturn the bed and search for secret exits.

He can feel the warm trickle of blood from his ear dripping down his jaw, and despite the pain, he still lets them twitch, lets them swivel and prick and _strain,_ desperately wanting to hear what would come next. He could hear the sound of Alice’s footsteps as she runs off toward the entrance of the house, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of her voice, too muffled to hear her words, but just loud enough to know that she was talking. He feels his claws trembling against the piping, feels his heart starting to pound.

There was a scream, a sharp one, and came the sound of footsteps, many of them, clacking against the floorboards, and a cacophony of voices rose up. 

_“Keep your wits sharp! This fucker has magic, and he ain’t afraid to use it!”_

_“On it!”_

_“Shoot anything that moves!”_

_“Check the rooms, check the rooms!”_

_“Keep the runt pinned!”_

It was then he heard her voice, heard it clearly, and by God, by Lucifer, by all the deities he could think of, he wished he didn’t. 

_“He’s gone! He isn’t here anymore! I don’t know where he went!”_

No. No. Why was she doing this? It would be easier to just give him up! Let them have him, and let him find his own way out later! Lying would only make things worse for her. And him. If they found him. If they saw through her lies. He swallows roughly, closing his eyes tightly. Her face, that expression, sat imprinted on the back of his eyelids, and his eyes shoot open again as that other face replaces Alice's.

No. This wasn't the time or place to think about that. Not at all.

There was the sound of crashing, of breaking wood and smashing glass, the thugs no doubt turning the place over end to end in an effort to find out where he was or where he went. He could hear the footsteps, dull and relentless, echoing above him, _around_ him, and every time he felt one starting to grow close to his hiding place, he felt his claws clenching themselves tighter around the pipes. 

_“What was he doing here, huh? How much was he paying you? What was he giving you?”_

_“He..He gave me nothing! I was doing it all on my own! I found him in that alleyway and I stitched him back up! He left! He left as soon as I had gotten back from the Market! I didn’t even catch his name!”_

_“Bullshit!”_

There was the sound of struggling, brief, and the sickening thud of a body slamming into the floor, followed by a strangled squeal of pain.

His claws tighten and the metal beneath them creaks. He takes a breath, going still, and focuses on the sounds around him. The shuffling of feet continues above him, and he slowly pulls his hands back and crosses his arms. The crash of glass reminded him of hoppy alcohol, though he couldn't clearly remember why. If only he hadn't overused his magic, if only he had a little more juice in him to obliterate these _bastards...._

_“We know that you were taking care of him, stitching him up, all that shit. We know he was here. Now where did he go?”_

_“I..I’m telling you...I don’t know! He was asleep when I left for the Market, he..I had used up some supplies, and I needed to get more! When I came back, he was gone!”_

Several footsteps begin to walk further away. 

_“He ain’t in the kitchen.”_

_“Not the bedroom either.”_

_“Nowhere outside.”_

There was a snarl of anger, of rage, a loud, irate, scream. _“Well where the fuck could he have gone! What, did he teleport away or something?!”_

The footsteps pace back and forth, before that same irate voice speaks up again. 

_“Come on, kid, the jig is up. Don’t make me do something you might regret, you hear me?”_

There was a soft clicking, and Alice’s voice suddenly becomes a lot more panicked. 

_“I-I swear! I swear that’s all I know! Please, please, don’t! He never told me anything! Please, no, no, NO-!”_

There was a sharp bang, a gunshot, followed immediately by a loud, terrified scream.

At the click, Alastor’s ears prick up again, trembling. He needs to say something. Distract them. _Anything._ His voice crackles with static and his claws dig into his arms instead. Her voice shouts out pleas, begs for mercy. What was he thinking? Give himself away, get both of them killed? Or worse? The gunshot makes him jump, like he wasn’t expecting it, and his lips curl in disgust. Not that anyone would be able to tell it from his usual smile. He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the screams, to block all the noise out, focus on the odd throb in his ear and back and shoulder instead. If he ignored it, he wouldn’t have to deal with it, and he couldn’t be blamed for it, and it would disappear like all the other horrible things that happen throughout life.

Amongst the screaming, came that voice again, dripping with anger, with contempt. _“You better tell us where he went right now, or next time I won’t miss. You hear me?”_

There was one final pair of footsteps that began to move around the house again, moved through the kitchen, each step taking him closer, closer, closer, until it was practically right above him. There was a voice, different from the one that had fired the gun. _“Hey, there’s another room back here! Full of medicine...and a bed. Flipped over.”_

Shit. Alastor slowly takes a step away from the entrance, trying to make sure his heels didn’t click on the concrete floor. If they found him... He flexes his fingers and unsheathes his claws again. He didn’t know how long he could last without accidentally drawing on magic and exacerbating his injuries. But he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. There was a long, long moment, Alice’s screams having slowly subsided into terrified gasps, panting and no doubt with tears leaking down her face. The bed was heard being jostled, the metal being scraped against the wooden floorboards, being pushed from where it was laying. Finally, there was a grunt of exertion, and he watched as the cover over the hole began to be lifted, the softest sliver of light starting to creep it’s way through. 

Then came another scream, Alice once more, only this scream was different. It was not of terror, of fear, but one that was long, loud, and began to tremble with the throes of rage. Then came the sound of another scream, and another, and a crashing thud, and several of the footsteps scattered over the floorboards like gnats. The bed was dropped like a heavy stone.

_“FUCK!”_

_“SHIT, SHE'S GOT MAGIC!”_

_“GET HER! GET HER!”_

Then came the sound of shooting, of pained screaming, the calamity and cacophony of a fight breaking out just up above him. The scent of smoke grew until it was downright palpable. “Magic?” He takes a step closer to the entrance, then stops himself at the smell of smoke. She knew fire magic? He recalls his own use of embers earlier - enough to make him pass out, at least in this weaker state - and how Alice hadn’t immediately reacted. He hadn’t thought twice about it. Maybe he should have. There was the sound of crashing, of guns being fired, and the meticulous roar of a giant flame, too many noises in order to articulate what was happening, how the fight was going. His ears pricked, flickered and swiveled, and all he could do was just stand there, shivering in the dark, listening to someone else get hurt, waiting for all of it to end.

_Sounds so familiar..._

There was one final crash, a loud one, and it was followed by a piercing scream, the footsteps all pounding toward a central point in the room, and when they did, the sound of Alice’s voice, full of anger and pain, began to die off, replaced by the sounds of cursing, of shoes kicking and stomping against the floor. Alastor holds his breath, feeling the vague tendrils of fiery magic fade and flicker out. Had they killed her? Or merely knocked her out? His eyes trace the direction of the stomping shoes, waiting for one of them to return to the overturned bed to continue investigating.

When the collective stomping finally faded out, all that came for a moment was the sound of breathing, wheezing, weak, ragged, followed by a deep, painful cough, and the image of Alice curled up on the floor, battered and bleeding, entered his mind. The voice from before, the leader of this supposed group, spoke up one final time, his voice low and rough. 

_“I’ve had just about enough of this. Tim, you said the bed in the back room was flipped over?”_

_“Yeah, it was. Torn up and stuff but I dunno if it was from him or the bullets.”_

_“Hmm...Well, he ain’t here in the house, so he somehow got away. God fucking dammit.”_

There was the sound of another stomping, and Alice’s weak cry of pain. 

_“You don’t have any fucking idea where he went?!”_

_“N-N-No! No, I..I don’t! I..I swear!”_

_“Tch...”_

There was a pause, and then the man turns, addressing his group. _“Alright...Get everyone you can. Search this side of the City, top to bottom, you hear me? Check every place you can. We’re not letting this fucker get away.”_

_“On it!”_

_“Yes, Sir!”_

_“Can do!”_

_“He’s as good as dead!”_

Slowly, all of the footsteps began to grow dimmer, dimmer, dimmer still, and for a moment, all he heard was the sound of Alice’s breathing, shaky, pained, whistling, like she was fighting to even get the air in her lungs. 

Then came the clicking of a gun, and Alice’s scream lasted only half a second before the ensuing bang drowned it out. There was the sound of a wet thud, and then silence.

Alastor slowly relaxes as he hears the footsteps recede, taking a breath as he realizes they were going to leave her alive, albeit gravely injured. He could deal with that. He could find a way to get them both out of a full sweep of the City. He didn’t know how exactly, but he knew he could do it. He would have to.

Then the click, the scream, the shot, the thud.

Every inch of him tenses, eyes going wide, and a sliver of ice traces down his throat and through his chest. A singular pair of boots thud against the floor above him, moving toward the front door, and vanishes along with the others. No heavy breathing, no whistling, no small scuffling noises. Complete silence outside of his own thin breathing. Spotty static wells in his throat and he tamps down on it before it could give him away. This is fine. This is... better. He could wait until she regenerates and then they could both find their way to a safer area of the City. He wouldn’t look as suspicious as he would lugging a body around the City.

But who knew how long it’d take for her to regenerate? He could walk around just minutes after death. Simple injuries heal three times faster for him than other demons. And Alice wasn’t him. He sits there in the dark, sits there with only the light of his own eyes to reveal to him that his fingers are trembling, and he clenches them tight in an effort to stop them in their tracks. He waits, waits in silence, ears straining through the veil of the darkness, for a sign that anything, anyone at all was still around, that somehow Alice would regenerate all on her own and come to get him out of the pit. But nothing happened. Nothing. Not a peep.

He isn’t sure how much time passes while he’s frozen in place, and at some point he feels himself blank out of it all, feels himself back into white noise. Usually, he’d be able to simply walk off a death. He’d see it, hear it, and shrug and say how sad it was that some poor soul had met their end yet again. He’d killed people with his own hands. But somehow this death, Alice’s death, strikes him differently. That other face - he knew the face, of course he did, how could he forget that face? - floats into view in his mind, and he grinds his teeth together. Completely different people, yet the few similarities could draw such a visceral reaction out of him.

Just that thought alone is enough to get him to remind himself of the present, of the bitter chill of the room around him sinking into his suit, the stagnant, stale, rotting air causing his throat to burn and the need to cough well up in his lungs. He reaches out to grip the piping, and with a grunt, begins to climb back up, back up towards the remains of the bed that has shielded him from sight. He presses a hand against the tattered fluff, hisses through his teeth, and begins to shove, once, twice, thrice, before managing to slowly lift the bed off of the floor, away from the surface of the hole, letting the light in, letting the fresh air in, and the sight of the destroyed room, riddled with bullet holes. Plaster scatters over the ground, a few bullets that had hit metal or fallen from awkward positions in the ceiling or walls sitting here and there. He gives the bed a final shove and pulls himself full out of the hole and quietly slinks toward the door. The sound had only been a little off to his right. Medical bottles were crushed on the ground, though a few didn’t seem to have broken in all the commotion. His eyes scan over the holes in the walls he passes, the cabinets that had fallen in the kitchen. He moves into the living room and pauses.

The living room, too, was wrecked with bullet holes, top to bottom, the walls punctured through, chunks of wood already falling off to clatter to the floor the moment he stepped through the doorway. What little furniture there was, a stool, a bedside table, had been completely ruined, smashed to pieces, nothing more than scattered chunks lying across the floor. Across the walls, up on the ceiling, were scorch marks, varied in size and shape, blackened with soot and burnt ash, and the scent of smoke hang heavy in the air, though there was no longer a sign of any flame. The windows were broken in, bits and shards of broken glass scattered across the floor, and the front door was knocked off it’s hinges, letting in the crimson light of Hell’s skies. 

There she was. Laying in the middle of the floor, slumped over, unmoving, her eye facing him, dark, glassy with the sightless vision of the dead, a thick trickle of blood marring her face as it drips from her forehead, pooling beneath her hair, her jawline sporting a nasty bruise, her right cheek marred with a deep cut. Her dress was torn in places, covered in soot and ash. He slowly inhales, teeth locked together, and steps toward her, kneeling down and closing her eye. His hand shakes, and he takes another breath to steady them before pulling her into his arms and looking around the room. Everything was ruined. There wasn’t a single place to put her that wasn’t covered in glass or wooden shrapnel. He moves to a window and peeks outside. Quiet streets. He stretches his ears. No other heartbeats.

“Another house it is, then.” He steps over the fallen door and walks toward the house next door.

He keeps his shoulders hunched, his ears pricked, his claws sharp, though he tries his damndest not to let them touch any part of Alice’s skin. The next house was remarkably similar to the first, probably some kind of remnant of a forgotten cookie-cutter complex that had been swallowed up by apartments, and though it didn’t look as worn down as Alice’s own had, a quick look around through the windows and the lack of any distinct heartbeats made it clear that no one was home. A quick kick to the front door was enough to have it creak open, and thankfully it wasn’t so rusted that it fell over completely.

The living room houses a couch, similar to Alice’s house, and he keeps it in mind as he moves to inspect the other rooms, one outfitted with a long dinner table and the other a dusty bed. He shifts Alice into one arm and pulls the cover back, then completely off the bed when he sees the layer underneath is untouched by any kind of mold or residue. He lays her on the bed and carefully places the blanket over her.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

•••

It took several hours to finally dig out the bullet. It had been a long time since Alastor had done anything so precise and so delicate as digging out something so small, and even then, he had no exact training with adept surgical tools, only rudimentary needles and tweezers that were in any kind of medical kit. He didn’t want to dig too deep, didn’t want to attempt to widen the wound for fear of causing damage, and to top it all off, the smell of blood was beyond intense, the dark crimson staining his hands in a way that only succeeded in making his gut churn and his jaw quiver. He wanted to vomit, but the deep, darker parts of his heart only yearned to draw more to the surface, and his resolve clamped down tighter than a bear trap on a fox’s paw. The moment he saw that little silver bullet, dented and coated with crimson, finally be dragged forth from that little hole in Alice’s forehead, he felt as if a titanic weight had been freed from his shoulders. 

He spent at least a good hour scrubbing his hands in the bathroom sink, just to get the stench of blood out of his skin. The next hour was spent going back and forth, back and forth, silently and quickly collecting all of what he could obtain from Alice’s house. He couldn’t help but be relieved that _somehow_ his radio equipment hadn’t been too badly damaged. It was a stroke of luck amongst a seemingly endless spiral and he wasn’t going to take it for granted. He brings all of the medicine into the bedroom, just in case Alice would need it before or after she wakes up, and decides to spend the rest of his time in the dining room with his radio equipment. There wasn’t much to do with it, but there were a few pieces he could slot together to make things easier in the long run. Barely fifteen minutes into it, his stomach rumbles. He still had some stew left, though he wasn’t necessarily due for another ration of the stuff. At the same time, with Alice close to a corpse in the next room over, and the few minor wounds that had slowly healed over.... Better safe than sorry.

The oven doesn’t work, so he eats half a bowl of cold, hearty soup.

It was remarkably quiet, nigh silent in the house as the darkness of Hell’s eternal twilight set in, shrouding most of the place in a deep, pitch-black abyss. Thankfully, after a good 15 minutes of routing around, he had found a lantern, in good condition, with plenty of fuel to keep it burning, and with one simple snap of the fingers, a small flame had been created in the center of the glass, providing just enough light for Alastor to continue fiddling around with his equipment. It was enough to get his hands working, to force his brain to silence itself, trying his damndest to keep his mind off of everything that had just happened, for more reasons than one. It had been a long time since that face appeared in his mind, and though he bore no hatred because of it, the way that face made him falter was something he found to loathe over the years. 

He took a screwdriver in hand, and began to lower it toward one of the speakers he had managed to put back together, aiming to give it the final few touches, his eyes narrowed in concentration. It was then that his ears pricked up, detecting the sound of a heartbeat starting to pump, the noise of a harsh, wheezing breath pulled through shaking lips, and he just barely had enough time to register what he was hearing before a loud, splitting, _terrified_ scream ripped through the air.

“Alice?” He bolts out of his seat and out of the room, bolts into the bedroom, and stares for a moment as he sees her sitting upright in the bed, clutching her hair and tucking her legs close to her body. “Alice, it’s alright!” Alastor darts to her side, hands hovering, unsure how she would react to being touched.

There was another scream, a louder one, and before he can even register it, he’s suddenly looking at the wall, and the sensation of his jaw throbbing has him lift a hand to his cheek. His eyes slowly flick back to Alice, her fist still raised in the air for another punch, her breathing heavy, deep, full of pain and fear and sounding as if she was 5 seconds away from hyperventilating. Her pupil was small, a dot against her sclera, and tears were already welling up in her eyelids, and for a moment, nothing was said. Then, she blinks, and recognition appears in her gaze, fist slowly lowering. “..A...Alastor?”

“...Yes, my dear.” He ignores the punch, ignores the small tingling of a bruise forming on his cheek, and gently puts his hands over Alice’s. “Your plan worked. I’ve moved us into the house next door for the time being. We’re both safe.”

“..I...I...” She trembles, and her other hand slowly lifts up to her forehead, her palm pressed flat to the skin. “I..I was...I saw the...the gun and...E-Everything went...dark..” She starts trembling even harder and tears begin to stream down her face. Her shoulders quiver, she bites her lip, and she lasts only five seconds before clasping her hand to her eye and bursting into tears.

“Oh my.” He swallows roughly, realizing that Alice more than like may not have died in Hell before. One of his hands moves to her shoulder, squeezing gently with reassurance. “Shh, shh, shh. Everything’s alright now. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Alice doesn’t seem to react to the touch at first, her sharp, harsh crying filling the air and making her entire frame quiver, and there was a good few moments where she didn’t move at all. But then she lunges forwards, and next thing Alastor knows, her arms are wrapped around his shoulders in a desperate hug, sobbing into the front of his jacket. Any other time, he would have considered pushing her away, but now he merely stares before giving in and hugging her back. “There, there, my dear. The worst is over. It’s scary, I know. But it’s over.” He brings a hand to the top of her hair, rubbing for just a moment. “Shh, shh, shh....” 

Alice only responds by clinging onto him even harder, her shoulders still shaking with the force of her sobs, her body still trembling and her voice nothing more than a hoarse, trembling wail of terror. She tries to speak, tries to use her words, and she just barely struggles to get any of it out. “I..I’m-I’m sorry! I-I-I-” She inhales sharply, lungs jerking, trying to hold back a sob. “I t-t- _tried!_ I th-thought that I-I-if I could...I..” She finally gives up, letting her words dissolve into another pitiful wail.

“My dear, you did everything you could, and you can’t blame yourself for that.” Alastor holds her tighter, for a second, willing her to stop crying. “Your plan may not have gone how you wanted it to, but you’ve still succeeded. You fooled them. They never found me, and you’ve saved my life, again. If anything, I should be thanking you.” He pushes her hair back in an effort to keep it out of her eye. “Though I must ask that you don’t do that again. Quite a reckless thing to do.”

She quivers for a moment, managing to stifle a sob long enough to speak, nodding against his shoulder. “N-Never. Never again.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Stolas. Mentions of bloodshed, murder, prostitution, and vomit.

“I’m just saying, she isn’t going to be thrilled if you don’t have a name to give her.”

Alastor walks alongside Alice, staying close to her as the streets slowly become more and more busy the longer they walk. The both of them are nervous in their own way, being out in the open so soon after the attack, but it was for the best. Staying in one place was only begging for trouble, and they needed to stay out of trouble for as long as possible. Alastor had begrudgingly come to the conclusion that he needed to cash in a favor with an old friend, which in turn meant crossing the vast majority of Hell City on foot, which could take quite a few hours, hopefully without being recognized by anyone in any of the gangs, and hopefully not being accosted by any random demon as well. The chances were rather slim, and the amount of additional convincing he had to do upon expressing the need to take the busiest, most crowded streets as compared to the shorter, more open, and empty streets had worked not only to soothe Alice’s frayed nerves and jittery behavior, but his own worries and mounting paranoia. The first ten minutes of slinking out of the dilapidated back alleys and into the more populous areas had been stressful and mostly quiet, and, sensing the bottling tension surrounding them, Alastor had begun talking about little things, taking note of new houses that had been built since the last time he had been in this part of town, or how the street names had changed. That had been a while ago, and the two of them had relaxed considerably since then, the conversation eventually becoming two-way and flowing between odd architectural commentary to relations to Earth buildings to shops and finally to the Emporium they were headed towards, and specifically the Overlord in charge there. Alastor looks around the odd vendors and small, enclosed apartment buildings before looking down at Alice, who had taken to holding his claws to keep from being separated in the thickening crowd. 

“You really do need a new name, dear.”

“I know, I know. I just...I guess it’s still strange to think about. To just go by a new name just because I’m dead. I know you said it’s important, and I know that I know, I just...can’t think of anything good.” She looks up towards him. “Can it be just another human name? Or does it have to be all weird like yours is?”

Alastor raises a brow and chuckles at the comment. “Yes, my dear. It can be completely and terrifically average. You can go by Jane if you want. I chose Alastor because I felt it fit me. Has a sense of meaning to it that I like.”

“What meaning?” She pauses to step over a broken bottle that had smashed to pieces against the pavement. “I’ve never even heard of the name before you came along. Is it just a name you made up or is it from another language?”

“I believe it’s Greek in origin, though I imagine the spelling was different.” He turns his gaze ahead of them to keep from bumping anyone. “It has a few different meanings depending on where you look, but the one I like is _he who does not forget._ There’s also _one who suffers from divine vengeance,_ which, given this is _Hell...._ ” He chuckles again and shrugs. “I couldn’t help myself from getting one last joke in.”

“Huh...” She tilts her head a bit, eye looking downwards towards the cracked cement for a moment. “..I think I more prefer a different name, to be honest. Like, a non-traditional one. Gives my real one more meaning since it’s the human one.”

Alastor nods a few times, enthusiastically. “Non-traditional is good. I know the big ones these days are naming yourself after words, like a type of apple or wood or something. Most others involve just taking consonants you like and trying to make them sound pronounceable. Like... W and... K. Could be Wick, or Wek, or Wak, or something.”

That last one gets her to snicker a little. “I-I don’t think I’ll be naming myself “Wak”. That just sounds silly. People will think I have a tendency to get hit or something.” Her eye flickers all around for a moment, lips curling inward as she tries to concentrate. “Hmmm....I’m thinking starting it with maybe an N? Or M? Or O? I’m not sure.”

“Hmm.... Lots of M names down here. I’d say N or O for starters. Not a lot of vowel names down here, from what I recall.” He taps his chin and carefully moves them around a small fight that was starting to gain steam.

She flinches a little at the sounds of screaming, at the sight of blood as one demon’s fist collided with another’s jaw, and her hand tightens around Alastor’s claws momentarily. Her shoulders were tense, and her chest was still, her breath being held. It’s only when the fight faded from view did she let it out again, and her claws relaxed. “...Right...Let’s start with...O first.”

“Hmm... O names, O names, O names... Ophelia is a common human one, but....” His eyes dart around the street, bouncing between houses and street signs. “Should it be a consonant next or a vowel?”

“Uhh...Let’s go with a vowel, maybe?”

“Okay, okay.” He stretches on his toes for a moment, falling slightly behind her and then clicking his shoes on the pavement as he rolls forward to continue walking. His grin was starting to look more lively than the last few days Alice had known him. “Oi.... Ou.... Oa... Oo - ooh, that kinda sounds a little French, don’tcha think? _Ooo._ ”

That gets her to let out a chuckle, shoulders trembling a bit as she laughs, a smile coming to her face. “I-I guess? I don’t really know French.”

Alastor’s grin widens. “Oh, really?” His open hand wheels in a circle next to him before resting on his chest. “ _Laissez les bon temps rouler! Mangez bien, riez souvent, aimez beaucoup!_ ” His arm flares into the air above his head, and a few passing demons chuckle at the display.

That gets Alice to blink, and she just chuckles again. “Wh-What did you just say?”

“I said, ‘Let the good times roll! Eat well, laugh often, and love abundantly.’” He grins with all of his teeth, which would be terrifying if the energy in his face was anymore threatening than a freshly buttered croissant. “A few sayings we borrow from the French down in good ol’ Louisiana. Take it to heart too.”

“Huh.” She tilts her head. “They spoke French there? I didn’t know that.”

“Really? Well, I am from _New Orleans_ specifically. Almost everyone knew French around where I lived. Some didn’t even know English! They were usually the nicer guys and gals of the area, if I’m being honest.”

“Hmm.” She goes quiet for a moment, an expression of mild surprise on her face that melts away into a grin. She clears her throat for a moment before speaking. “ _Anata wa enpitsu no yō ni hosoku mieru._ ” A few other demons passing by start chuckling too, and she can’t help but giggle herself. “I hope I got that right.”

Alastor’s eyes widen and blink at her, and then a happily startled laugh escapes him. “Well then! Was that - no, wait, what language was that? I’d hate to be wrong. And what did you say?”

“Heh, it was Japanese.” She grins up at him. “Remember that game we did with the two lies and everything? I never said I didn’t speak it. I haven’t tried speaking it in a while, but I’m pretty certain I just said “you look as skinny as a pencil.”

“Huh.” He tilts his head, and then his ears perk up and he gives her an amused, affronted look. “Hey! Not you too, you nifty little cretin.” He pulls his hand away, but only to affectionately mess up her hair.

“Agh-! Heheh, H-Hey, stop that!” She lets out a laugh despite her protests, her hand lifting up to try and push his hand away. “Don’t make me call you worse!”

“Go ahead and try.” He snickers and pulls his hand back, shaking his head. He blinks twice. “Hm. Actually, what about Nifty as a name? Could change the spelling or something. I hear people do that sometimes.”

“Nifty?” She blinks at that, her hands pausing in an effort to fix her hair, her eye flicking downwards in thought. “Hmm...Nifty...You think it fits?” She looks back up towards him.

“Enjoyable, interesting, clever, quick witted, skillful, particularly good.” Alastor rattles the words off, ticking his fingers with each one. He considers it and nods. “I’d say it suits you perfectly.”

“Heh. Really?” She raises a brow, and though she looks unsure for a moment, she slowly starts to nod. “Nifty...Nifty...It doesn’t sound that bad to be honest.”

“Yeah. Nifty.” He grins softly. “You know, you can always change it later. Try it out for a little while, see if you like it, change it if you don’t. It’s not particularly unusual for demons down here to change their names after a few decades anyways.”

“Right, right.” She nods again. “I’ll try to keep that in mind. How many times did you change your name before it stuck?”

“Hm.” He looks off to the side. ”Maybe four or five times. My first decade down here threw me through a few loops. Though I did try Alastor a few times, so I really only went through... three names?” He thinks for a moment, humming. “Yes, I believe so.”

“What was your first decade in Hell like?” She tilts her head. “I know you probably weren’t helping like I was, but I’m still curious, you know? Like, what was it like getting used to all of this?”

“Oh, well.” He laughs, and this time it comes off a little nervous. “It was... rather eventful. I came down in the middle of quite the, er, blood bath. Met Rosie shortly after, actually. Turns out we shared a few common interests. She helped me out here and there when I was in trouble.” He goes silent for a moment before shrugging. “I dunno, doll. I think a lot of demons end up in positions like this. They happen upon someone older willing to _deal with their quirks-”_ He rolls his eyes and brings his fingers up in quotes, like he had been subject to the words before. “-and that helps get them somewhere stable down here.”

“..Is that why people make deals to get into gangs and stuff? With those stuffy Overlord guys or something?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Gangs _do_ offer protection, in a sense.” 

“Hmm...” She looks a bit unsure. “I guess that makes sense.” Her hand drifts up to her forehead, idly, as if she wasn’t thinking.

Alastor’s brows twitch together at the sight, but he quickly flattens his expression back into a slightly above neutral grin. He looks ahead of them. “Not all the Overlords are hiring goons and droppers, though. Rosie simply runs her Emporium. So long as you don’t break her things and don’t cheat her out of a good deal, you’re fine. She’s really not as intimidating once you get to know her.”

“Alrighty, if you say so...” She goes quiet for a moment. “You said that her Emporium is in the middle of the City, right? Like, is it in the _middle_ middle or is it, like, just called the middle because it’s the busiest part of the City?”

“Oh, no.” He chuckles and points up ahead of them, above the roofs of buildings and toward high rises and glass skyscrapers with elevators and boxy, multicolored condominiums. “All of that? She owns that and most of the blocks around it. Most of all that is explicitly for higher paying clients, some are apartment complexes, and so on. But for all intents and purposes, outside of a few outliers, her Emporium _is_ the middle of the City.”

She blinks, her gaze following Alastor’s hand, and when she sees the collection of buildings in the distance, shining and glittering like diamonds, her eye widens. “Woah...That’s _amazing._ ”

“Most definitely.” He puts a hand on his hip. “Engineering down here is rather impeccable. I guess she’s added a few additions since the last time I came around too. Probably means she has more stock.”

“Where does she _get_ all of it? You said she has all sorts of things in there. Where would she get it?”

“Some of it is made here in Hell for her stores to sell.” Alastor leans down conspiratorially. “The rest is taken directly from Earth.”

“ _WHAT?!_ ” Her voice rings out as a huge shriek, and several demons turn their heads. She immediately flinches and hunched her shoulders, voice much more small. “H-How?! I didn’t know that going back to Earth was even possible! Like, I thought that demons could only come to Earth during the apocalypse or something!”

Alastor giggles. “Apocalypse? Oh, no. There are ways of getting back to Earth, at least temporarily. Humans can summon you if they have the right incantation, and most of the Overlords have access to grimoires charmed by Lucifer himself that can open portals to Earth. The lines between here and there aren’t as solid as one may expect.”

Her expression is filled with fascination, with shock, and soon the questions come tumbling out, fast and full of energy. “Can any demon be summoned? Is there a specific spell for each one or is it random? Have you ever been summoned? Have you ever summoned a demon when you were alive? What happens when an Overlord goes to Earth? How does Earth not know about demons already if they’re popping up and down all the time? Is it like some kind of weird demon conspiracy going on? Does the government know about this? Does the president? Why hasn’t Satan come to Earth if he can just send people up and down all the time?! How has anyone just not known about this?!”

His face grows more and more amused by the questions, and he gently puts a hand up in defense. “Slow down, there, slow down. Theoretically, any demon can be summoned, though I imagine the process would require some sort of formula to do so. From what I’ve heard, it’s possible to refuse a summons. Most of the time. I’ve never summoned a demon nor have I ever been summoned, but Lucifer doesn’t like it when we’re seen publicly, which is why he doesn’t get involved very often. No clue on governments and their conspiracies, or ours if we are involved in any of them. And Satan is a different person than Lucifer.”

She blinks for a few seconds, before frowning, craning her head up to look him in the eye. “He is?”

“Oh, definitely. It was a whole thing a few centuries ago or something along those lines.” He waves a hand. “I’m not sure of the exact history, but from what I know, they didn’t exactly see eye to eye.”

“Huh...” She tilts her head for a moment, before looking back up. “Uh… So if the Emporium is essentially the center of the City, does that mean that the North side is close? I met someone yesterday in the Market, and I figured, since we’re already out and about...”

“I believe so, yes.” Alastor glances at the street marker as they reach the end of yet another block. “Do you want to go and visit them?”

“Yeah. I have a business card she gave me.” She digs through a pocket for a moment before pulling it out and holding it up for him to read.

He bends his neck down again to read the address. “Nora, plague doctor and medical expert, Northwest side, Mangle Street, 593. Oh.” He straightens and glances up at the sky before looking back down to Nifty. “That should actually be rather close. There’s a bit of a round about road up ahead, and that street should be on the other side of it since we’re coming in from the South.”

“Really?” She blinks, stretching up on her toes in an effort to see the street that he was talking about.

“It’s still a little ways out. The round about is fairly large.” He shakes a hand gently . “I imagine your friend is rather comfortably situated in their field and place in Hell. You should keep their card. Networking can be the difference between life and death.”

“..It _is_ ok if I go visit her, right?” She tilts her head. “I thought your friend would want to meet me.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” He smiles at her. “I’m sure Rosie and I will take a while to sort things out. We can talk for hours on end simply catching up with each other and discussing swing music. We can meet up at the courts in the Emporium once we’re done. Even if you take longer than I do, I could probably find Rosie again to introduce you two.”

“Alright, if you say so.” She nods softly, tucking the card back into her pocket. “Just don’t want to make a bad impression on a super powerful demon lord, you know?”

“Heheheh. Of course. I’ll make sure to put in a good word while you’re off.” He tousles her hair again. “You can trust Nora, right? I imagine she’s the one who helped you at the Black Market?”

“Pfft-! Stop that!” She slaps his hand back, smoothing down her hair again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m hoping so. She gave me an entire kit of medical supplies even though I only asked for some bottles and syringes. If that isn’t a sign of someone who is a good person, I don’t know what.”

Alastor grins as she pats her hair back into place, though he has to hold himself from honestly laughing at the idea of good people in Hell. He supposes he understand though. Nifty isn’t all too bad after all. There had to be others like her, who at least tried to emulate good or were just barely sinful enough to tip their personal balance toward Hell. Then again, being a sinner didn’t necessarily mean being _not good._ He guessed. “Just be careful regardless. And if anything happens, just try to make it to the Emporium. You can get in easily, and Rosie has enough security to stop fights.”

“Right, right. I’ll keep that in mind.” She nods softly, her expression falling into a more casual look, not quite blank, not quite expressive.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, dear.” He fixes a stray hair that she hadn’t caught and smiles wider. “Giving away medicine like that is definitely a good show of faith.”

She blinks at that, and finds herself grinning, nodding softly. “Thanks, Alastor. I appreciate it.”

The collective of demons begins to thin out ever so slightly, and soon, a large gap in the seamlessly endless walls of buildings opens up, leading to demons cutting off from the flow of the crowds. Nifty moves up on her toes again in order to catch sight of the roundabout road, eye narrowing as she squints. “Is it coming up?”

He nods a few times. “Just a little bit further.”

The road to their left widens, and the sidewalk widens shortly after as well, leading to a massive, mile wide circle with cars driving around a central fountain shooting shimmering, black water into the air only for it to fall back down into white marble dishes stacked asymmetrically around a hidden figure. Iconography of skeletal animals crowd the base of the fountain, and a large tome emblazoned with the elaborate sigil of Lucifer and Lilith sits at its front, open toward the influx of visitors. As Alastor and Nifty move into the curve of the sidewalk, the figure hidden behind the dishes and cascades of water comes further into view, a primly dressed woman sporting a wide brimmed, feathered hat and unnervingly blank eyes. A wide smile curves her lips, and her hands tuck behind her back. She clearly wears a dress of an older fashion, but the exact details are obscured by the fountain.

Nifty’s eye can’t help but widen at the sight of the fountain, and her jaw opens as she lets out a fascinated gasp, hands moving up to her cheeks. “Oh my God, it looks _beautiful!_ Who is the statue sitting in the fountain? What’s those weird squiggles on that book? How long did it take to _build_ that? What’s that black stuff coming out?”

“Haha, so many questions.” Alastor shakes his head slightly. “The statue is Rosie, and the, er, _‘squiggles’_ on the book are the sigils of the king and queen of Hell. I believe the book is supposed to represent Rosie’s grimoire, while giving homage to those who lent it to her, of course. The black stuff....” He rubs his jaw, smirk widening. “Not sure. Could be water. Could be something else.”

“Oooh...Do people throw coins into it?”

"Sometimes. You have to cross the street to get it though, and the cars can be a bit bothersome."

“Right..” Her eye flicks to the cacophony of honking horns and belligerent swearing from the cars being stuck bumper to bumper. “Guessing there are no traffic guides in Hell?”

“Not really, no. Not yet at least.” Alastor shrugs and continues walking. “All these stores along the sidewalk here are technically a part of her Emporium, by the way. They’re just not _the_ Emporium.”

“How many stores does she _own?_ When did she die? She must’ve been down here for a long time in order to get all this set up.” She eye swivels all around in an effort to catch a glimpse of everything.

“A lot, and that’s personal. She’ll either tell you herself or she won’t.” He watches her eye spin and dart about. “She’s older than me, though. Obviously.”

“Hmm.” She almost seems to pout at the lack of an answer, but then blinks as something seems to occur to her before she winces. “Oh, crap, is that rude? Is asking people about their death dates rude?”

“Hmm... Not necessarily.” He shrugs a little, slightly unsure himself. “It’s more telling other people’s death dates that’s rude. Some people don’t like having people know without them knowing that they know who knows...” He blinks, then shakes his head. “Most people like telling their death dates than having other people tell it for them.”

“Right, right.” She sighs softly. “I just don’t want to accidentally piss anyone off with some social taboo or anything.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine. There really aren’t all too many in Hell anyways.”

“Any I _should_ know about?”

“Hmm.....” He thinks, humming all the while. “Lucifer’s daughter is always right, and don’t be a Nazi.”

That gets Nifty to blink, and she doesn’t speak for a moment. “...Huh?”

“Hm?” Alastor looks down at her and raises a brow.

“...I’m gonna need some context for those. Like...Lucifer has a _daughter?_ What do you mean she’s always right? Also if she’s the daughter of the Devil, doesn’t that make her the Anti-Christ?”

“Oh, right, of course. I keep forgetting that’s always news.” He sighs softly. “Lucifer and Lilith had a child who knows how long ago, and they can be rather protective of her, so it’s a good rule of thumb to simply never insult her. I suppose on some account she’s technically the Anti-Christ, but I wouldn’t be bothered by it. And don’t get any ideas to go killing her to save the Christians or something.” He rolls his eyes. “Every decade, there’s _some_ demon that tries to storm Lucifer’s castle and every decade they end up vaporized before they reach the gates.”

“I..I wasn’t?” She blinks, a bit put off by the last part, and hesitates for a second. “And, um...What was that about Nazis? Is...Isn’t this Hell? Wouldn’t they... _belong_ down here?”

“Oh, yes.” His grin snaps widely across his face. “But most of us down here didn’t like them.” He laughs in his chest. “Most of them were purged as soon as they got here. Perhaps the most unified I ever saw Hell, in all honesty.”

“R-Really?” She blinks in surprise. “Why? I mean, that’s obvious, but I just...” She trails off, expression looking troubled. “I’m not saying that I thought you or anyone down here would be _ok_ with Nazis but I wasn’t expecting Hell to _not_ be ok with them, you know?”

Alastor shrugs lightly, lips closing over his teeth for a moment. “You aren’t the first to mention it. I suppose there’s even a limit to how much a demon is willing to deal with.”

“Right.” She nods for a moment, then lifts up a hand to pat his arm. “Sorry if it’s...a rough subject..”

“I would have thought it’d be a rougher subject for you.” He raises a brow. “Didn’t you live through World War Two?”

Nifty blinks at that, and for a moment, she doesn’t speak, frowning, more so in thought than anything else. “I mean...A little. I was eight when it ended, and I knew bits and pieces then, since everyone was flipping out about it all. Got word from other kids in the neighborhood and the daily paper. My dad eventually spilled the beans when I was around twelve, told me the details, and by that time, streets in my neighborhood was getting a bit...rough.” She shifts a little. “My dad told me I couldn’t speak Japanese out in public. Told me it made people...” She lets out a sigh, shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

His brows tighten and he puts a hand on her shoulder. "Of course. I can only imagine what it was like." 

She raises a hand up and rests it on top of his. “Yeah...” She takes a deep breath and looks up at him, frowning a bit. “I’ll tell you all of it someday, ok?”

He chuckles. "Sure thing. I'll make sure to keep in mind things to tell you in return."

“Anything you want to tell me to make me laugh?” She grins a bit at that. “You’re pretty good at that.”

"Hmm. Promise not to tell anyone?" A smirk quirks his smile one way.

“Ooh. Promise.” She nods, grinning, her expression shifting into something more eager.

He chuckles, shaking his head at himself as he leans down to her. "One name that I briefly went under was Reginald."

She lets out a snort, a hand coming up to her mouth to hide her smile, and her shoulders shake a bit. “ _R-Reginald?_ ”

Alastor sighs and nods gravely. "Reginald."

“Heheheh...” She snorts again, and her grin is trembling. “Why...Why _Reginald?_ Did you want to have tea and crumpets with the good ol’ queen of France?”

"Pff." He straightens, rolling his eyes despite feeling his face flush somewhat. "It came to me in the moment. And everyone else had bets on how long it'd last."

“How long did it last?” She snickers, the laughter finally dying down a bit.

"Just a few months." Two of his claws come up to his temple and he closes his eyes. "I still can't believe I did that."

“I’m never forgetting this. Never. And I can’t even say till the day I die either, cuz I’m already dead.” She smirks.

He huffs. "You better not tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold."

“Aw, fine.” She rolls her eye, still grinning. “You’re lucky I’m still a good person.”

He chuckles and messes her hair up again. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get too high and mighty. Wouldn't want two of us with inflated egos."

“ _Agh-!_ ” She leans her head away and makes a dramatic show of slapping his hand away, still grinning. “Oh my Gosh, will you stop doing that! That’s like the fourth time! I’m not a _dog!_ ”

"Ow." He shakes out his hand, though his grin only widens. "I'm sorry. I can't help myself. If we were in a less populated area, I'd probably be dancing you about." He slowly comes to a halt in front of a cobblestone path leading away from the storefronts. "I believe this is your street."

“Huh?” She blinks, before her eye spots a little pole with a sign on it that ends in an arrow, pointing down the path ahead, polished writing carved into the wood that reads: MANGLE STREET. “Oh. Cool, I didn’t even notice it was there.”

"The paths in this area are rather subtle." He points further down the sidewalk. "A little further is Main Street. Keep going down straight and you'll make it to the Emporium. That's where I'll be."

Nifty turns her head towards where he was pointing ahead and nods twice. “Main Street, straight line, Emporium, got it.”

"And what I said about running to the Emporium," he continues, "still true, but the areas honestly is better than where you were. You'll be fine."

“I mean, if you say so.” She shrugs a touch. “You’d know more than me.” She looks back up toward the sign, takes out the business card, then looks back up at Alastor. “Well, Uh....” She gives an awkward wave. “See ya.”

"Erm. Yeah. Abyssinia." He flashes his teeth again, waves, and then turns on his heel and starts striding toward Main Street.

She tilts her head at the sound that Alastor made, her brow raising in confusion, before letting out a sigh and turning to start walking down the cobblestone path, holding the card up to her eye. “Ok, 593...593...”

•••

The end of Main Street is announced by large, looping script on a well-lit sign reading _Rosie’s Emporium_ and, in small script underneath, _Absolutely Everything from Everywhere._ Alastor, used to the sight, walks calmly for the paneled glass doors and into the building some people made a beeline for and other nervously inched toward. The sound of both bored and overly bright workers filled the air as security organized the customers into one of six lines for routine scans. The drone of “Please empty any and all metallic objects from your pockets...” repeats asynchronously as he approaches a short line and waits, humming a small tune all the while. He vaguely wonders if Nifty had managed to really pull all the bullets out of him, but figured this would be as good a time as any to figure that out.

His ears flick and swivel as the sound of the crowds fill the air, as well as the occasional soft beeping from the metal detectors as they did their work. Several guards stood by the doors to the entrance, each one wearing black suits and ties, along with a single golden badge that displayed the towering building of the Emporium, meant to show that they were under Rosie’s command. Some looked quite bored, leaning against the walls, others stood as stiff as boards, eyes scanning over the demons as they made their way through the detectors, looking tense, like they were expecting something to happen. There were also smaller demons, imps, judging by the horns and bright red skin, walking up and down the lines, with large plastic containers in their hands, holding them up toward demons who were pulling out various weapons (guns, swords, daggers, the like) and placing them into the boxes. The next line over, one of the imps falls over with a crash after a particularly hulking gargoyle attempts to balance his broadsword on top of an already precarious pile, and he has to hold back a chuckle. 

So many demons carried so many weapons around that it was ridiculous. Sure, they could hold all those weapons, and likely use them all in a variety of horribly deadly ways, but it also weighed them down, and likely meant they didn’t care to master a single weapon, and thus only knew a few moves with each, which made them predictable combatants. Personally, as a demon, Alastor preferred using what he had been given: his claws and his teeth. No one could disarm him or catch him without a weapon, and that was what he liked best. Granted, there are always occasions when weapons are necessary.

An imp walks up to him and he deposits some spare change and a loose bolt in the bin. He walks through the metal detector. He was expecting the same old soft beep that had rung out through the air countless times now, the same quiet beep that barely made his ears flick, so when the machine suddenly lets out a shrill shriek, the light above the frame flashing a harsh red hue, he isn’t quite expecting it, and finds himself jolting, whirling around with a confused blink. “What the...” 

He turns back around to see that two guards are suddenly shoulder to shoulder, glaring down at him with irritation in their eyes. “Sir, the loudspeaker made it very clear that all metal objects and weapons must be deposited in the bins.”

“Of course, apologies, gentlemen.” He straightens himself when he sees them, though the confused look doesn’t leave his face. “The only thing is that I don’t believe I’m carrying anything metal.”

“Well, the _metal_ detector says you are, so either you’re lying or the damn thing is busted. And I don’t think it’s the latter.”

“Of course. Rosie does like keeping things up to date.” He tilts his head. “I don’t believe this has ever happened to me before. So what happens next?”

“You either cough up what you’re hiding on you or _we_ make you.” One of the security guards cracks his knuckles.

“Okay, then.” He puts his hands up and takes a half step back, genuinely trying to wrack his mind for what the metal could be. Did he really have a bullet in his gut? Usually he’d feel that. He pauses as the ankle of his left shoe bends awkwardly. Then blinks and rolls his eyes at himself. “Ugh. I’m so sorry.” He knees down and pulls his pant leg up, then tugs a thin, sheathed kitchen knife out from the cuff of his shoe. “I was rushing this morning and must have forgotten to put this away.”

The security starts to slowly relax at the sight of the knife, the one on the left raising a brow. “Is that all of it?”

Alastor sighs, stepping back through the metal detector to put the knife into the bin before stepping through it again. The device lights up green. “There are so many better ways of killing people than with guns, don’t you think?”

One of the security guards lets out a grunt, pulling a cigar out of his suit pocket and places it between his lips as he walks back to his post. The other just lets out a sigh and steps aside to let him past. “Maybe. Just as long as they end up dead.”

Alastor merely hums, taking his coins back and letting the guard handle the knife as he continues on his way. He straightens his jacket and dusts off his front as he ignores a dozen employees asking if he needed help finding what he was looking for. No, he just needed to kill some time until Rosie appeared. She always found him eventually, after all. Although, _how_ he would kill that time...? He takes a moment to glance down at his clothes, his nose wrinkling at it’s horrid state, from splotches of blood and mud, to the torn patches that he barely was able to sew back into place. Eugh. Perhaps he ought to start with finding a new suit; if Rosie saw him in a state like this she’d be absolutely furious, and he wasn’t in a mood of being whacked with a newspaper today. He huffed slightly to himself, not liking the idea of exchanging his suit, but his more complete method of restoring his jacket relied on his use of magic, which he still didn't want to test yet. If a few flickers of flame had been enough to knock him out... He shakes his head as he moves toward the tailor's section of the building. He'd get matching color, that's for sure. Hopefully he could find a thirties shop. He couldn't imagine wearing _sixties_ fashion.

The tailor section of the store’s many halls was filled to the brim with clothing shops and other such related markets, from small kiosks layering the middle of the walkway, looking to sell ties, watches, earrings and pieces of jewelry, to entire stores lining the walls, advertising clothing that appeared to be from all sorts of eras and cultures. Some were flashy and dripping with gold, some were thick and coated with wool and fur, some were made of intricate leatherwork with delicate patterns carved into it, and some were even reminiscent of military uniforms. Every demon had their own niche, depending on when and where they lived, and Rosie had made it a mission to provide a way for all to find what they needed. Admirable, really. All in all, Alastor had to hand his hat off to Rosie. She was not only doing what she wanted, but she did what she did best and she did it well. She also was doing something that would help many demons without making herself out to be a philanthropist, and had managed to set herself in a position where most Overlords were reliant on her for some kind of trade item or generally held a neutral or positive view of her. She wins on all sides constantly. And all of Hell benefitted as well.

His eye catches on a shop full of men's formal wear and he ducks inside at the first sign of a suit with lower lapels and side pockets. The dark red carpet of the store, along with the surprisingly soft lighting makes a rather welcoming ambiance, and just a glance at the walls is enough to reveal plenty of suits on display, some covered in beads and glitter and gold, while others were just plain black suits, and he could see a few demons already walking about, looking through their stock. He hums to himself, softly, spotting a few racks that were labeled as “20’s-30’s”, and lets himself slowly walk down the aisles as he pursues row after row of suit jackets, the smell of cologne ripe in the air and making his nose tingle slightly. Occasionally he would move to pluck at the fabric of one to observe it, only to not like the way it felt on his claws or not enjoying the choice in color and letting it go. Brown, black, some awful off-green vomit color. 

He pauses to inspect a creamy, tannish suit, then passes to the next. Pinstripes, plaid, smaller plaid, tweed, tail, no tail. Full white. symmetric design. Penguin suit. He did actually look good in those, but he wasn't going to be walking around in it any time soon. Too many pockets, too many buttons, too thick, too thin. There were so many different kinds of red too. Dark, light, metallic, pastel, patterned, and so on. Some weren't necessarily a '20s or '30s thing, but the suits were still in the style. He feels sequins on one and pushes it aside without taking a glance. No, no. He much preferred simpler things. Darker jewel colors, no pattern, either one solid color or soft gradient, two buttons, slightly longer on the torso than most people, and he could tailor the rest himself. Simple, easy, but still a hassle to find the _right_ one. He'd know when he finds it though.

He winds up getting down to the last few suits in the 3rd rack before finally giving up with a small huff, finding that none of these particular articles of clothing suited any of his tastes. It’s a bit of a shame, really; Rosie’s Emporium was probably one of the only places in Hell that actually specialized in hand-tailored suits, and he certainly didn’t feel like walking all the way down around the outskirts in an effort to locate some other dirty, unkempt store that happened to provide the same service. He plucks at his own suit, idly, before humming to himself. Perhaps it was the best for now; if he needed a lower profile, walking around in a bright red, blood-stained tux was probably not the best idea. Maybe he needed to simply change what he wore until he could resume his regular wardrobe. Something a little different then. Not too different, obviously. He wasn't about to go walking around in psychedelic shirts and whatever else people wore these days. He'd keep it classy, but not too classy. More relaxed. Work relaxed? Hmm, no, that'd be too stuffy, but something close to that. 

He looks down at his suit again, then moves to a wall mirror to look himself over. The jacket is what everyone remembers about him. It makes him stand out, and that was something he always appreciated. But maybe he could do without it for a time. Not forever. But until things calm down a bit more. He hums idly, then undoes his bow tie, then his neck collar, and finally the buttons of his jacket and slips it off his shoulders and neatly into the crook of his arm, leaving himself in only his vest and dress shirt. Not too bad. He occasionally walked about his house like this, though rarely outdoors. He'd lose an extra layer, but he'd definitely blend in with crowds a bit more. He twists his legs this way and that. Maybe he could get some new pants too. Maybe in a slightly longer style. Or skinnier. Or high waisted? He'd have to think about it.

There suddenly came the sound of some sort of cooing trill behind him, almost like a mix between a dove and an owl, a sound that was enough to make his ears flick, and when he turns his head, he sees quite the dapper-looking demon, lounging an arm on one of the shelves, piercing red eyes looking at him with a look he can only describe as sheer, unadulterated hunger, and not the kind he was familiar with. The man was tall, lanky, wearing quite the get-up, from a large top hat to a rather fluffy king’s robe, complete with the white fur outline and garishly red overtones, along with a button-up vest. He had the facial features of some type of bird, like that of a barn owl, and when he opened his beak to speak, his voice was surprisingly deep, nasally, stuffy, as if he was trying to embody every stereotype of the mega-rich at once. “You don’t even _need_ to do anything else, darling. That look alone is enough to get my heart _pumping._ ” 

The word “pumping” oozes from between his lips like he was trying to imply something, and Alastor can already feel himself holding back his gag reflex, and his eye twitches a touch. He squints at the demon, momentarily trying to unravel the statement before giving up and shaking his head. "Pardon me, but I don't need fashion advice from someone mixing ballroom dance with the wardrobe of the King of England." He turns and starts walking in the opposite direction, toward the aisles of vests and accessories.

There was another cooing trill, and Alastor can see the flash of a long stream of feathers flicking like a tail, just seconds before he hears the sound of footsteps following him, that awful voice not going away. “Ohohoho, you’re a fun one. Tell me, darling, I’ve never seen your _pretty_ face around here before. I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered if I had; how could one forget such a lovely sight? Especially with such an adorable _tail_.”

Alastor freezes, muscles seizing as he feels scaly talons grip around his tail - which was _showing_ because he didn't have his jacket on, which never happens because he _always_ has a jacket on. There's half a second of odd static, and then he whirls around, slaps the demon's hand aside and then grabs a cane from a nearby shelf and promptly pushes him several feet back. "No, no, no, no, no. Seven foot rule. No touching. No. Good day. Bye."

He turns again, walking faster to try and lose the man and keeping his ears perked for the sound of footsteps and lewd comments. There was a visible blink at the sight of the slap, and when it happens, the man draws his hand back, a sound in his throat that sounded more akin to an offended squawk than anything else, like the caw of a crow. There was silence for a moment as Alastor turns to start walking away, but then came the sound of laughter (which sounded suspiciously like an owl hooting). “Ohhh, my good man, you should watch your temper there. You never know _who_ you could be talking to down here. It’s a good way to get yourself in trouble.” For a moment, his eyes flash red, and the lights above flicker for a moment, and all the other demons still in the store immediately freeze, drop whatever item they were going to purchase and immediately bolt out the door.

Alastor stops walking, takes into account the flickering lights, and turns to look back at the demon and concentrate for a moment. The glow from his eyes slowly becomes visible around the demon's figure, an odd sense of magic and power hitting him with enough intensity to make him cringe. With how quickly everyone else evacuated, he wouldn't be surprised if this owl was an Overlord.

He hated how easily he attracted Overlords in Hell. Like flies to a goddamn carcass.

He exhales and bows slightly, smile straining across his face as he forces down the urge to rend intestines across the walls. "Apologies. You startled me and I wasn't thinking." He straightens and taps the cane against the ground.

The Overlord’s beak curls into a pleased grin, and the intense wave of magic recedes into his spindly form like a tide pulling back, and he lets out another trilling chuckle, tail feathers flicking. “Ohoho, nice to know that some people still have good manners down here. You happened to put me in a good mood, what with that little _show_ you gave to the mirror, so I’ll simply set your _insolence-_ ” He clenches his fist and it momentarily flares with a deep red hue. “-aside for now.” He tilts his head, and suddenly, before Alastor can even register that the man _moved,_ an arm is wrapped around his shoulders. “So tell me, little buck, what is your name?”

He jumps, tensing and barely holding himself back from reflexively elbowing the demon in the stomach. He shifts his body away, stiff and uncomfortable. "Um. Would you believe me if I said Reginald?" He brings a hand up to pick claws off his shoulders.

There was another laugh, with that same awful bird sound that was starting to grate against his nerves, and the demon’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Ohoho, Reginald, you say? You just get cuter and cuter with each passing second.” He doesn’t even react to Alastor trying to push his hand off of him, even going so far as to pull him closer, leaving Alastor’s side pressed to his chest, grin turning more mischievous, voice dipping down into a low purr. “I can tell that you’ll just be _lovely_ in bed. Use those adorable little antlers as _handlebars-_ “

“ _STOLAS, WHAT IN THE NAME OF_ LUCIFER _DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!_ ” 

Within an instant, the birdman is off of Alastor entirely, feathers flying everywhere and the sound of belligerent cawing filling the air as a well-dressed woman wields a broom over her head like a warhammer, bringing it down on the Overlord’s head as he attempts to scramble away from her fury, resulting in an almost cartoonish scene where they’re both running in circles. 

“Rosie, stop hitting me! You’re knocking out my feathers! Ow, ow, ow!” 

“I have told you _countless_ times to stop harassing my customers, and what happens the _second_ I turn my back?!”

“But I get so _lonely_ and everyone is just so _cute_!” 

“I don’t care! I am sick and tired of you ruining my business because you’re too much of a _bastard_ to keep your hands to yourself! Now get out! Out I say!”

“But, Rosie-!” 

“OUT!” 

There was a huge flare of flame and a crackle of magic, and with a puff of ash and feathers, the Overlord is gone. Rosie stands there in a huff, shaking and snarling, teeth bared and hands clutched tight around her broom, before glancing around the store, noting how a good many of the racks had been knocked over or set on fire or absolutely ruined with soot, and she sighs. “God dammit...” She snaps her fingers thrice, and a group of imps dart in to start putting out the flames. Alastor slowly pulls himself from the shelf he had plastered himself against as the two went chasing each other through the store. He slowly takes deep breaths, trying to force his claws to sheath and the dull static to fade away. The breathing exercises don't help him very much.

Rosie’s head turns to face him, and she lets the broom drop as she walks towards him, her sharp-toothed grimace turning into that of a concerned frown, sockets crinkling with worry. “Al, honey, you ok?”

He inhales, holds the breath, and exhales loudly. "I was... _this_ close to turning that man into roasted turkey." He holds up two claws within an inch of each other. A shiver goes down his spine and he makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "Gah, okay, that settles it. New clothes. Burn these ones."

Rosie nods in understanding, letting a hand drag over her face. “I am...so sorry about all of that. I wasn’t aware he was in the building, I’ve banished him at least thrice now, but he always ends up convincing me to let him back in. He’s one of my biggest spenders, so I can’t really drop him completely, it’s just a huge mess that I don’t want to get into...” She blinks once, twice, leaning closer for a moment. “...What _happened_ to your clothes, dear?“ She squints. “What happened to _you?_ You’re as skinny as a pencil!”

Alastor rolls his eyes slightly, bending down to pick up his jacket from where he had dropped it. "First of all, I've always been skinny and you always comment on it and I'm fine. Secondly, a lot." He holds his arms out and looks at the bloodstains and rips that had refused to restore themselves. He let's out another breath and drops his arms. "Mostly Valentino. His men, rather."

“ _Again?_ ” She stares, before she lets out an aggravated sigh, shaking her head. “Alastor, how many times have I told you to just come to me if they’re bothering you? I have connections, I can easily wipe your trail clean! I was trying to avoid _this!_ ” She waves a hand, gesturing at his clothes. “And don’t you lie to me! How long has it been since you’ve last eaten? Your eyes have bags under them.”

"I ate just the other day. But I've been rationing, sure. Dealing with some snapback is all." He looks aside, unsurprised by the comments. "And you know wiping my trail means getting rid of my station and I'm not doing that. And I _am_ here, Rosie." His arms cross, though he doesn't meet her eyes. "To ask for help."

That gets her to go quiet for a moment, to which the silence is only broken by a long sigh, Rosie turning around to start walking toward the store’s entrance. “Come on, then. You can explain everything over some food. You might as well relax and have a bite to eat while you’re here; God only knows how long you must’ve been hiding this time.”

"I haven't even gotten a new suit yet." He huffs, but follows her, tugging his jacket over his shoulders.

“Oh, hush your mouth and just relax for a second. Food first. You can explain what happened then.”

"Alright, alright." Alastor lets out another breath and hops up to her side with a brighter smile. "So what did you think of my last big stunt on the radio?" 

•••

Nifty couldn’t help but stare upwards at the building that she was standing in front of, her eye flicking back and forth from the card to the bright black letters that were drilled into the brick wall, just beside the door. 593. This was the place, alright. It just didn’t look like she was expecting it to. She was expecting a house, sure, but not the kind that was in front of her. It was a brick building, tall, with only a small few set of steps and a railing as a porch, leading up to a wooden oak door that had a brass knob on it, far too high up for her to reach. It looked like the type of house one would expect more than one person to live in, and judging by what she could peek from the sides, the lengths of the rooms back pretty far. The sidewalk ended at this particular house, curving around to a corner, and across the cobblestone street was a building that had been reshaped into a small pizzeria. Nifty lets herself let out a sigh as she glanced back at the card one more time, before walking up the steps, lifting a hand to knock on the door, not too hard, but just hard enough that she hoped she could be heard; there was a doorbell but she couldn’t quite reach it.

There was at least 5 seconds of silence before there was the sound of multiple locks unlocking, and the door opened up just a crack, and before Nifty could so much as even _move_ , there was the sound of something mechanical clicking behind the wood. Then a voice. 

“State your business.”

“Oh, ah, hahah.” Nifty tenses at the sound of what must have been a hefty gun clicking into place, but she smiles nervously all the same. “It’s, uh, it’s me, A- I mean, Nifty, from the Black Market? But you didn’t know my name then because I didn’t have one. I, erm.” She laughs shortly. “I just wanted to stop by since I was in the neighborhood. And I have a name now! Heh.”

There was a small pause of silence, and then there came the sound of more unlocking sounds, followed by the door opening fully, and the mask of Nora appears, her alarmingly large grin appearing over the bone-white beak. “Ah, the little fire demon! How nice to see that you managed to find your way. And you said you found your new name? How wonderful.”

She chuckles again, tapping her fingers together. “Yeah, it’s been a bit of a trip getting over here, but uh... Yeah. It’s kinda strange to have a new name to be honest. But enough about me! How have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been absolutely fine, dear.” Her head bobs in a nod, chuckling softly. “Been busy with my research, but I’m more than happy to treat a house guest. Please, do come in.” She slowly moves aside, gesturing with a clawed hand.

“Thank you.” She ducks inside, though the movement is rather unnecessary given her height. Her eye darts around for half a moment, catching on the walls before returning to Nora. “What kind of research do you do? Ooh.” Her eye widens at a thought. “Do you work with making new medicines? I’ve always thought that was a rather neat subject. Though a lot of it comes from accidents and strokes of luck, I guess. Still neat.”

From what she could see of the house so far, the walls and ceiling were covered in dark green wallpaper tinged with bronze petals and vines, while framed pictures of what look to be unfamiliar landscapes hang on the wall. There was a staircase with polished oak leading up into the upper floors, and to the left of her was an open doorway that depicted the beginnings of a living room, while to the right there was nothing more than a simple wall that _looked_ to have the framing of a doorway but was sealed off. There was a large light hanging up above them by chains, and it was a wonder that Nora wasn’t bumping into it considering how tall she was. She was removing a wide-brimmed hat from her head and placing it on a coat rack, causing a small group of black feathers to be revealed, sitting on the top of her head like a patch of hair that was _just_ out of place. Besides that coat rack was a shiny silver blunderbuss, no doubt what made the clicking sound from before. 

Nora can’t help but chuckle, her head swiveling so that an eye could stare down at Nifty’s own with a look of amusement. “Not necessarily. It’s a tad more complicated than that.” Her head swivels back into it’s proper place, and she slowly makes her way into the living room, her clothes rippling as if she’s walking but oddly not making a single sound. “But it would be rude of me to get into the dirty and gruesome details when you just arrived! Please, come, sit down while I get you something to drink. What do you prefer? Coffee? Tea? I also have soda or lemonade if you prefer something more sweet.”

“Oh, uh, I could go for some lemonade, thank you. I think I’ve had enough coffee these last few days.” Nifty follows her down the hall, letting Nora lead her through the house. “I love your house. The wallpaper is a very nice touch. I don’t think I’ve seen floral patterns in a house down here before, which is really a shame if you think about it.”

“Oh, thank you. I must admit, it wasn’t quite my idea. It had been a house that was sold to me a good few years back. Back in the 40’s I believe.” She chuckles a touch at the memory. “But yes, it is beautiful. I did my best to add my own touches to the mix.” 

They enter a large room, decorated in that same wallpaper, this time with many shelves decorating the surface, high up, where it would take a ladder for Nifty to even reach. Said shelves were covered in odd little items, such as a clay vase, the polished skull of what looked like an overly large rat, a small black globe of the Earth that sat on a golden axis handle, a untouched plate, and many more. There was a large maroon couch that had at least three giant pillows resting against the cushions, lined with fabric tassels, sitting against a wall, looking relatively undisturbed. Sat in front of it was a coffee table, painted a solid navy blue hue, topped with a dark green beaded fabric that draped over it’s surface, along with a single candle that sat within it’s holder, the wax a soft pink hue, looking whole and unlit. Two bookshelves lined two walls, one of them resting against the wall facing the couch, a taller build, filled to the brim with tomes of all shapes and sizes. The other bookshelf was much smaller, more compact, it’s insides crammed to the brim with books as well, resting on the wall that was opposite of the doorway, and what made it so different than the rest of the furniture was the television sitting on top of it, it’s wires extended, the screen rendered black. There was another, smaller chair off to the side, in a corner facing the doorway, just as plush as the couch, with a similar pillow resting in the seat, and Nora gestures between it and the couch. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable while I fetch you the lemonade.” She turns away, before her head swivels to face her, a full 180°. “I also have snacks if you wish. Do you enjoy sugar cookies? Or chocolate chip?”

Nifty blinks at the twist of her head, but recovers quickly. “Chocolate chip. Please.” She grins again and chuckles, almost at herself. “Sorry. Thank you.” She watches Nora nod before turning back to the room, letting out a breath in a soft gasp. “Wow. It’s so fancy in here.” Her eye darts about, taking everything in for a second glance, and strides toward the smaller bookshelf. There were a few titles on medicine, which was to be expected, and then several books with worn binding, and even a few in what she guessed was either Latin or Italian if the _Di Immortales_ was anything to go on. Humming, and deciding that snooping through bookshelves - something she knew could be rather personal - was probably not befitting a guest, she hurries over to the coffee table and couch. She touches the table cloth, making a soft noise at the texture, and then pulls herself onto the couch amongst the massive pillows. She was barely taller than them, but they were rather comfortable, and the couch was rather soft.

There was a few moments where there was nothing else to listen to aside from the faint ticking of a clock, but then came the figure of Nora appearing around the corner, somehow just as silent as she was before, carrying a wooden tray that she sets down on the coffee table in front of her. The tray contained a pitcher and an empty glass, to which Nora fills it up with lemonade, as well as a large plate of chocolate chip cookies. Nora moves over to the smaller chair to sit down, plucking up a mug that had been resting on the floor next to it, a mug that seemed to be topped with whipped cream. “Feel free to eat as much as you want; baking is kind of a hobby of mine, when I’m not busying myself with my own work.”

“Oh, thank you!” She reaches for the cookies, grabbing one with a particularly large amount of chocolate in it. “I’m absolutely terrible at baking, but I can cook a good turkey.” She takes a large bite and almost melts as the taste hits her tongue. “Mm! Wow, that’s good.” Her hands darts up to her mouth as she chews and quickly swallows. “It’s, like, sweet _and_ salty? And soft. I hear that’s hard to get.”

The sight gets Nora’s grin to widen, and she lets out an amused chuckle, shoulder shaking a touch. “You could say after being down in Hell for...” Her head tilts sharply, beak laying sideways, and she goes quiet for a moment. “...I believe 600 years, give or take a few..” Her head tilts back up. “You learn a few things beyond your timeframe.”

Nifty starts to nods, then stops and stares at her. “Did... did you say... 600 years?” Her eyes blinks rapidly. “Wouldn’t that mean you’re from the, uh... Fourteen... thirteen hundreds?”

That gets her grin to grow even more, curling over the edges of her mask, and she chuckles again. “Ever heard of the Black Death, dear?”

Her eye widens. “No way.” She leans forward. “Were you an actual plague doctor? You kinda look like one from what I was taught. And you actually worked with the Black Death? Bubonic Plague? While it was actually happening?”

“Indeed.” She nods again, claws tapping on the mug she was holding in her hands. “My memories are...quite fuzzy from then, I’m afraid. One of the many ways Hell becomes a place of eternal suffering.”

“Oh.” Nifty deflates slightly, and takes another bite out of her cookie. “Is memory loss a typical thing in Hell?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” She lets out a sigh, and her grin fades from her beak. “I’m afraid that it’s unavoidable, dear. It happens slowly. Memories just sort of...fade, until you don’t even have them at all. You forget things. Faces, names, locations. Some say that there’s even a day that you forget your _own_ name.”

“Hm.” She leans back a little, frowning and looking down at her knees. “I’ve dealt with patients that had similar symptoms. It’s... never easy from what I’ve seen.” After a short moment, she clears her throat. “So, um, what have you been up to? You mentioned research, and that it’s complicated?”

She doesn’t respond for a moment, merely lifting her mug to her beak and taking a sip, before lowering it back down. “..Yes, my research.” She shakes her head a touch. “Pardon me. My thoughts drifted a touch.” She sets the mug down to stand, moving over to the larger of the two bookshelves and pulling out a particularly thick, particularly _old_ tome, and she moves to set it down on the table. “This is one of the oldest books I have. It’s also a book of my own design. Feel free to look through it, if you wish.”

“Oh.” Nifty leans toward the book, sliding off the couch to carefully open it to the first page, scanning over the script that met her. “This is all your research? Wow. You must’ve been going at this for quite a while now.”

“Indeed. I believe I started around...Let’s say the 16th century.” Her grin comes back at that. “It’s a bit outdated now, but it’s still my pride and joy.”

The texture of the paper was thick, crinkled, many stains of nondescript origin having long since turned it’s pages a dull, almost yellow hue. Blackened ink was long dried upon the paper, and the first thing that drew Nifty’s eye was the sight of an illustration, a sketch of a horned figure with wings, holding aloft a ball of bright brimming light in front of a weeping man, also with horns, on their knees, clutching their hands together in a desperate plea, while a hole was visibly missing from their chest. There was text beneath it: 

“ _The mortal soul is the very life from God himself, or as so the biblical texts have stated. They say that souls are created from His Almighty powers, crafted by His hands, molded to live in the universe that He created. No one knows where they come from, nor how they are formed. But all who fall into Hell’s eternal pyre knows this one sacred rule: all souls that choose to follow the path of sin and rejection, shall have their souls no more. For the King Of Hell decrees it._ ”

“Whoa.” Nifty shifts closer to the book, glancing back and forth between the passage and the illustration. “‘Shall have their souls no more.’ And the King of Hell...” She hovers a finger over the winged figure. “This is Lucifer? And this is a demon? And this ball here...” She circles the article. “That’s the demon’s soul? Does it really look like that? And Lucifer collects them?”

“Indeed.” She nods softly. “The truth of Hell is that our souls no longer belong to us once we stray from God’s path. Lucifer, the King Of Hell, takes them from us.” She reaches out, and delicately turns the page, exposing two more. 

The first one shows only that of another illustration, an anatomical sketch of what looks to be that of a smaller demon, with curving horns and a tail that ended in an arrow-like point. There was nothing that would point to an actual anatomical sketch; no organs, no labeling of muscles and arteries, and instead, there was only a large array of symbols over what was supposedly their skin. The second page showed another illustration, that of a clawed hand clutching the hand of a human, and both of them were engulfed in flames. The text beneath reads as follows:

“ _Demons have been crossing over to the human plane since the damned have fallen, and, as a result, have been making deals. Demonic deals are deals of power, of trickery, of deceit, and no matter the desire, no matter the goal, the price is always the same; the mortal’s soul. It is only then that demons themselves can bear witness to the sight of mortal souls, as the souls belong to them for the duration of the deal._ ”

“Wow. So, wait. That means that...” Nifty looks down at her own chest, hand gesturing vaguely. “Lucifer has my soul? But I’ve never met him. And I’ve never met a demon before waking up in Hell, so it’s not like anyone else would have had it. And what are these symbols all about here?” She points at the first illustration. “I don’t recognize them at all. Except.... Hmm.” She frowns at one, her eye narrowing. She points at a circle with a cross through it. “I’ve seen that one somewhere.”

“Hm?” She swivels her head carefully so that her beak doesn’t scrape against Nifty’s head, moving so her eye faces the page. “You have? Where?”

“Um. I dunno.” She scratches her chin. “Sometime recent? Must have had something to do with- Oh!” She snaps her fingers. “Al- er, my patient. He’s been trying to put together some broken up equipment, and there are a few symbols on them. I thought they were just designs or something.” She taps the circle and cross. “I’ve seen this one the most, but I’ve really only seen his work up close a few times.”

She blinks, head turning back upwards to face her fully. “Your..patient knew of these symbols?” She tilts her head again. “Hmmm. Interesting...How is he? Has he made any recovery?”

“Hm. He definitely seems better. No fainting spells or anything.” Nifty frowns a little. “I don’t know, though. He’s been acting a little strange since a few days ago. Not medically, but behaviorally.” She leans back against the couch. “You know how patients sometimes act all happy and stuff to get you to stop asking questions? Kinda like that, but not.” She exhales and rolls her eye. “I mean, he’s weird as is, so it’s hard to read him, you know?”

“Ohh, I see.” She chuckles a touch. “How weird, exactly? Not as weird as a frog who has acidic skin, I hope.”

“What?” She giggles at that. “No. And he’s.... I dunno. He’s just... it’s hard to describe.” She shrugs. “He tells jokes all the time, he’s super amicable, but then he’s also really distant about things and doesn’t want to tell me his medical history and all sorts of things. I feel like I know him, but I really don’t. He’s one of those kinds of patients. All smoke and mirrors.”

Nora nods, going quiet after a second. “...Can you trust him? Or at least...feel like you can trust him?”

“I do. I can.” Nifty scuffs her foot on the ground. “He’s a big question mark, but for some reason, I just... _know_ he isn’t going to hurt me or anything. Especially with how he’s been acting recently.”

“Recently?” She tilts her head again.

“Like he - just-” She takes a breath, then climbs back on the couch and looks Nora in the eye. “Okay. So, you know how I told you I was getting a new house? He offered to find me one in return for helping him. Weird, but, I mean, sure. Then Vox sends some men over to harass me, which is usual, but this time they-” She winces. “I got shot in the head. And he could have just left me there, but he didn’t! He took the bullet out and gathered all our things and the next thing I know, he’s saying he’s gonna talk to an Overlord about getting me a house. A nice one. And not in a romantic way!” She waves her hands frantically. “He’s dead serious. Concerned, maybe? It’s like he’s getting protective, but he’s still distant, and it’s weird, but it’s not.”

Nora is silent for a moment, merely listening to Nifty speak, and even when she’s done, all she does is hum to herself, a hand coming up to adjust her mask ever so slightly. “..This man sounds...interesting, to be sure. At the very least, it sounds like he means you no harm...Though...You claim the men of Vox harass you...Does that happen often?”

“I mean... Yeah?” She shrinks a little under her gaze. “I help people who get hurt, and they hurt a lot of people. They don’t like what I do. But they’ve never... _killed me_ before.” The image of the barrel in her face drifts into focus in front of her and she shudders.

“Why did they kill you?” She tilts her head, slowly, and her grin disappears. “...Was it because of him? This man?”

Her frown deepens and she looks away. “They were... looking for him. And I wouldn’t give him up. That’s just not what nurses and doctors do!” Her eye burns and she feels heat tingle across her palms. She clenches her fists over the hem of her dress. “I did what anyone else would do. I did the right thing.”

“Of course, dear.” She nods softly, slowly moving to sit down next to her on the couch. “Of course. No one is disputing that. It’s a brave thing, to do good deeds in Hell. Even braver to still do good even after you’re shot down.” She goes quiet for a moment, then dips lower. “...But are you prepared to keep throwing yourself in the line of fire? To place yourself in harm’s way? To protect one man, who very well could be just as awful as the men under Vox’s thumb?”

“ _Yes._ ” Nifty raises her head to look Nora in the eyes, tears bubbling along her eyelid. “Because whatever he did - whatever he’s _done,_ he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve what the gangs are doing to him. No one does.” Her hands tighten, shaking, and a fierceness fills her face. “Most of the people in Hell don’t deserve to be down here, Nora. Maybe there are some really bad people down here, sure. But the people _I’ve_ seen? They all have context behind them that most people don’t see because it’s Hell and we’re not supposed to look for it. And it’s _bullshit_ that we should be living like this when we did one or two things wrong. So I’m going to do what I can to make things better, even if it’s as small as helping random strangers who may as well be axe murderers because _maybe_ they aren’t. Maybe they only got worse in Hell because it’s what’s expected of them. But I don’t know, and I’m not going to let _guesses_ get in the way of helping people.”

Nora doesn’t say anything, her smile gone entirely, causing her mask to become nothing more than the grim, featureless face of sickness and pestilence that history had remembered it as. Then, slowly, she plucks out a handkerchief from a pocket in her robes, and holds it out to her. “...An admirable task for one so young. One that needs support, should you wish to continue. It is in Hell’s nature to snuff out the righteous light, and with one so small such as you, so young, it’s only a matter of time before Vox’s ire draws deadly consequences.”

Nifty trembles as Nora speaks, at the near clinical diagnosis of her fated cause of death. She feels the tears in her eye course down her cheeks, and she keeps her mouth closed to hold back small stutters of breath. Her hands slowly unfurl from her dress, smoothing out the material before she takes the offered handkerchief. “I - I don’t get why Overlords want to make things wor-worse. They should know better than anyone what they’re creating.”

“Hmm..” Nora is quiet for a moment, but only a moment. “...Ones like Vox, only see value in business, in vanquishing adversity, in sinking their claws into everything they can see so they can sap them of all their worth. He sees you as nothing. As a worm to be squashed under his boot. But you are not. You are merely an ember. A flame that needs to be kindled, and become a roaring inferno.”

She frowns slightly at the comparison, dabbing at her face. "How do you do it? How have you lasted so long without becoming numb to it all? You keep researching, keep selling medicine. How?"

The question has her tilt her head ever so slightly. “...What else can I do, dear? I’ve lasted this long. I’ve lasted through so much death, so many changes, without ever falling once to the blade of the holy. That is yet another curse of Hell. It takes away everything. Leaves you bare. Leaves the whole of who you are exposed. And after that has happened...What is left other than to keep on going, and remold yourself in a new image? In a new way?”

Nifty sniffles and looks away. "Remold yourself? As in, become something you aren't?"

“...No, dear. It means to become the person you never could be before.”

She swallows, taking that in. _The person she never could be before._ Before Hell? Before that moment of realization? What kind of person would she be then? She sniffles again, exhaling, but doesn't respond.

There was a moment of silence, and Nora lets out a sigh. “...I suppose I’m still reshaping myself too, even now.” She lets a hand lift up, idly rubbing at one of her wrists. “...I can offer you something. A choice. A choice to take the first few steps, so to speak. Tell me...Do you believe Vox’s men will continue to hunt you and the man down?”

She nods easily and pulls her legs up to her chest. "They - they were pretty insistent. Shot up my whole house. There were at least five of them. And apparently Valentino's men are after him too." Air heaves past her teeth and she rubs at her forehead, combing her bangs idly. "It's a mess."

“...You will not be able to protect him forever. Not like this. Not like now. Not when you’re alone. Do you accept that?”

"Of course." Her hand flops to her lap. "Hopefully he'll be alright once he's back on his feet for sure, but that would take time."

“Indeed. Time you don’t have.” There was a pause. “...What if I told you that you could help your friend? You could aid him, help him hide, help buy the time he needs. You could be safe from Vox. From Valentino. From everyone that seeks to bring you harm.”

"I'd ask you where you're hiding the miracle button for making things simple." Nifty tries to laugh, blinking a sudden itchy dryness from her eyes.

That gets Nora to let out a chuckle, her shoulders trembling a bit. “No, no, I’m serious. I know of a way to help you.” The smile that had habitually come to her beak slowly falls. “To help you become stronger, to help you hide from your foes until you’re _ready._ To help that flame you have in you grow.”

Nifty sniffles once more and lowers the handkerchief to her lap. "You really want to help me?"

“Of course.” She nods softly, and though her eyes weren’t visible beneath the mask, somehow Nifty got the sense that she was being sincere. “But I must ask this: will you accept what I’m willing to offer you? This isn’t a choice one makes idly. They must be willing and ready. They must stick to their choice. Will you make that choice? Will you take that step?”

She frowns. "Well, what exactly am I getting into? You're kinda making this sound a bit, erm, dangerous. Or something. No offense."

Nora is silent for a moment, looking away. “...There is a man I know. I came to him for aid, and he took me in, gave me new opportunities I never could gain before. And in return, I work for him. I have been for the past 20 years now. That’s the choice I’m offering you now. I can take you to him, and you can make a deal, a deal that can save you and your patient from Vox, from anyone that tries to bring you harm.”

Nifty's frown deepens, considering the implications. Make a deal with another demon, theoretically one with more connections. But also a demon Nora seems to trust, and has confidence in his abilities to help her. And Alastor. And theoretically everyone else she comes across who needs help. But it would still be a deal, and deals are binding, and who knew what this demon would ask for? And the deal would only make them stronger, if what she knew was true. Her eye glances at the book Nora had written. "What, um, what kind of things would I have to do? In theory."

That gets her to grin, softly, those teeth peeking out from the seam. “Simple. You do what you’ve kept on doing.”

She blinks at that, and she looks up at the hulking bird demon sitting next to her. "I just... keep helping people? He won't ask for anything more?"

“Of course; healing is your strength, your passion, the thing you strive to become better at, yes? Why strip someone of their strength when it can be harnessed to become even better?”

"Yeah, but when I ask him for help and protection and stuff, isn't he gonna ask me for something in return? Isn't that how a deal works?"

She’s silent for a moment. “...Yes, he will. But it will be something small. A simple agreement, to aid him when he needs aiding. Other than that, he will let you go on your way, no questions asked.”

"Okay. Something small." She shifts. "I mean, maybe he'll ask me to help with anyone he knows who gets injured. Or something like that."

“Exactly, dear.” She nods softly, encouragingly. “It’s how I started off, working for him. After all, how can he say no to someone with 600 years of medical expertise under her belt?” Her grin grows at that.

"Haha, yeah." She shifts nervously. "I don't have that many years, but I certainly know a thing or two! Heh."

The grin falls upon seeing this, and she lets out a sigh. “I’m not forcing you to do this, you know that, right? All you have to do is simply decline, and I shall never bring it up again. I’m only asking because the situation you’re in is quite the dire one, and I don’t know what could happen next. You have a good heart, that much is certain, and I’d hate to see that rot away because you can’t defend it.”

"No, I... I know." She sighs. "I just... I've never made a deal before. And I know I can do a lot and I know a lot, but I'm not... He already has you, and I can't exactly compare."

She goes quiet at that, and her hands fold together, softly. “...Perhaps. Nothing says I can’t teach you more.” She extends a hand to tap the book. “This is only one volume I’ve written. I have plenty more. My research is quite the extensive piece...and I could use a second pair of hands.”

Nifty blinks, eye going wide. “Wait, really? But, um, isn’t that all about souls and stuff? I don’t really know much about that. Just medicine and taking care of people and all that.”

“How do you think I’ve managed to find out all that I know so far?” She tilts her head. “Medicine means knowledge, and down here, I simply can’t rely only on the medical practices of the living world. I have to create and solve and scribe the knowledge of demons all on my own. Have been for 600 years.” She raises her hand up to her eye and gives it a tap, revealing the mask’s sockets to be layered with glass. “I’ve even gone so far as to learn how to see past the veil of the physical body. There is not just medicine down here, dear. There is also magic, and they’re more intertwined than you think.”

Nifty’s eye narrows, then slowly widens, a sort of understanding coming over her. “That... actually makes a lot of sense. Some of my patients act really oddly to certain medicines, but there aren’t exactly allergies down here. Not like on Earth at least. But the body still reacts to medicines as if they were human, although....” She recalls the number of tranquilizers Alastor had used on himself and shakes her head. “Still not the same.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I mean.” She nods encouragingly. “Somehow the bodies of demons are changed when they make their descent into Hell, forced to become something entirely new, crass amalgamations of who they used to be.” She taps her beak. “Surely it is not coincidence that my form became the very symbol of my profession.” She yanks up one of her sleeves to display the dark black feathers that line her arm. “And surely it is not coincidence that it was blended with that of a crow, the symbol of _death_ in my home.” She lets her sleeve go and taps her book again. “That is my research. To find out the power of the mortal soul. To see it, to hold it, to unlock the secret behind how they’re made and how they can be harnessed. In other words, the source of the magic that gives demons their powers as well as their bodies.”

"...Wow. I hadn't thought of that." One of her hands drifts to her hair, a fiery reddish pink and orange. "And you called me a fire demon..." She frowns, for just a moment, and then shakes her head. "Okay! Okay, I think I've got it. There's still a lot for me to learn, and I'm a fast learner." She trills her fingers on her lip. "Okay. Ask the guy for help, help him in return, and things will get better. Okay. Yeah. I think I can do that."

“Are you sure, dear?” She tilts her head, turning to face her fully. “I should warn you that this is not something you can back out of. This man can offer you the help you desire, but he also doesn’t take kindly to desertion. If you really do want this, then you must accept that this deal is permanent.”

Nifty exhales, thinking about it all again. After a moment, she tosses her hands up. “I don’t think I have much of an option, is the thing. I mean, of course I do, but I just.... I can’t keep bouncing around hoping no one will find me or my patients. Especially if it’s the gangs! I don’t think it’s just Vox anymore. Alastor mentioned something about Valentino, and _he’s_ got power, I know that much. Influence at least.”

“I see. Yes, Valentino’s men are not often trifled with. The scourge of the streets, they are.” She nods softly, going quiet for a moment. “...If you think it is best, then I suggest I take you to my employer right away.”

“Right now?” She hums and looks around for a clock. “I don’t know. How long do you think it will take?”

“Hmmm...” She tilts her head for a moment, and she goes eerily still. “...Perhaps two hours, give or take.”

“Hmm....” One of her feet taps rapidly in place. “Maybe I can manage it. He said they talk a lot. Okay.” She nods emphatically and hops off the couch, drinking some of her lemonade. “Okay, let’s get going.”

“Very well.” She moves to stand as well, picking her book up and closing it before placing back onto the shelf. “I hope that you will not regret this decision, dear. It will be nice to have someone to teach.”

“Heh. Well. It’d be nice to have a tutor.” Nifty smiles softly and brings her hands behind her back. “So which way are we going? How far is the walk?” 

“Further into the West side. He’ll be staying in one of his private homes for the time being; he has a tendency to move around the city a lot, as a way to throw off anyone who might try to look for him.”

“Seems like a lot of people do that these days.”

“It’s Hell, dear; if you don’t keep changing, in some way or another, you wind up dead.”

•••

Angel Dust had only been requested by Valentino once before, and the feeling then was very much the same as today. He walks toward a multistory building with pink stained glass windows with hearts in their centers as the gate behind him slides back into place with soft creaking and a gentle click. He walks up the marble stairs, forcing his fingers to stop fidgeting and utterly failing. He slicks his hair into place. A guard looks him over, opens the main door, and he walks inside, the tone of his heel clicks changing to match the lavish, wooden flooring of the building. There are two more guards waiting for him just inside, and they silently point to the staircase with their jaws rather than say any words. He follows their example and stays silent and continues walking. He acts like he doesn’t notice how closely they follow him, or the fact that the main door had been locked behind him, or the fact that _another_ guard stood at the top of the stairs eyeballing him the entire time.

He was used to it. He was used to being looked at. He was used to being in constant danger. And he was used to getting himself into trouble.

Just not _this much_ trouble.

Nothing in the note clued him in on what the meeting was about, but the fact that the guards weren’t flirting with him like they did before (still silent, but there could be words without sound, obviously) and the fact that they all seemed to serious made him suspect this wasn’t about giving him a promotion. And all he could think about was that lowlife bat who got him to cough up a little lady’s address.

Well. At least this probably meant they never found the gal. Which was good. In his books. Sorta.

He follows the main route he had taken before, slowly walking down a long hallway, covered head to toe in gold and pictures of the head honcho himself, dressed in decadent furs and always wearing those bizarrely obnoxious glasses of his, the floorboards creaking ever so slightly beneath his feet. He could hear sounds behind the doors that lined the halls, sounds he didn’t quite to know the origins of, and as he stared ahead at the large oak doors at the very end of the hallway, he couldn’t help but recognize the scent of blood, and he takes a moment to sniff at the air to confirm it. Yup, that was certainly blood coming from Valentino’s office. He was absolutely fucked.

Somehow helping Alice had fucked him over. Maybe it was because of the alliance with Vox, which he hadn’t known about, more than likely because he was “just a prostitute” and not formally part of “the business.” Of course, he was entirely part of the business but mafias and the like had a proclivity toward certain measures of status. Even then, he had no clue why they’d be upset about losing a single demon who could barely put up a fight.

Rolling his shoulders and giving the guard on his right a wink, he knocks on the door. “Hey, Vaaal~! I hear ya finallly made an order.” He chuckles. Best to keep up impressions.

The guard tries his best to give him a stern glare but it’s ruined by the soft, strangled chuckle that rumbles in the pig’s throat. There was silence from the door before a loud voice came up to answer. 

“Quit the jokes and get your ass in here, toots. And you, sit the fuck down and stop that sniveling.”

There was a faint sniffle from behind the door, followed by dull footsteps that soon ceased. Angel felt his blood chill for a moment; Valentino must be in a pretty bad mood if he wasn’t even bothering to cut up some poor bastard on a schedule.

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.” Angel pulls the door open and slips inside, freezing for half a moment as he sees a puddle of blood _on Valentino’s desk_ surrounding some kind of paper cutter and an odd triangular shape still stuck on the blade. The bat demon sits in one of the chairs in front of the desk, clutching an ear with trembling hands soaked in blood. “Oh, uh... What’s, uh, this all about, Val?”

The Overlord sits behind his desk, per usual, but his hands are threaded together and a thin spray of blood covers his face and parts of his suit. He doesn’t seem to care about the blood pool inches from his elbow. “Take a seat, Angel Dust. And it’s _Valentino._ Call me Val again and I’ll rip off one of your arms.”

“Whoa, okay. Um.” He wants to say something like _You’re in a mood today_ or _Touchy, ouch_ but the words fizzle in his throat and he slinks closer to the seat. “Yeah, sure, anything ya want, boss.”

“Sit. Down.” The glare Valentino sends him is enough to make Angel’s senses buzz, and he takes the hint and takes a seat. He exhales, seeming to relax an inch, and takes the odd triangle out of the paper cutter. And throws it right at Angel’s face.

“Guh! Whoa!” The thing slaps him and falls onto his chest, then down into his lap. It finally clicks that it’s the bat’s ear. “What the-”

“You did this.”

Angel’s blood runs cold and he locks eyes with Valentino again. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“ _You did this._ ”

Angel’s tongue is rubber in his mouth, his eyes wide as he stares down at the bloodied fragment of what used to be a whole ear, the bright teal fur soaked with crimson, leaving behind a dark stain on his clothes. He slowly flicks it off of his lap and onto the floor, before he looks to his right to see the same bat from before, the same one that held the knife to his face in that alleyway, sitting in a similar chair, a hand clutching the bloody stump where his ear used to be, the fur on his cheeks soaked with tears, eyes puffy and red, shoulders visibly jerking, no doubt trying his damndest to not start sobbing from the pain. His other hand was curled tight over his side, displaying a wing that lined the length of his arm, from his armpit to his wrist, the membrane looking thick, tough, splashed with an array of blending colors and iridescent hues. Their eyes lock, and the bat doesn’t say a word.

He slowly looks back towards his boss, those pretty eyes of his narrowed in anger behind those pink lenses, and he felt the fur on the back of his neck prickle. “...I...C-Could you explain what you mean, exactly?”

Valentino lets out a grumbling sigh as he leans back, picking up a cigar from an ashtray and bringing it to his lips. "Little birdie over here told me you not only sassed them off their target, but you scared off one of mine." He breathes in, holds it, and then exhales smoke from the corners of his mouth. He pulls out two photographs and slides them across toward Angel Dust. "I _know_ you'll recognize the gal. And I know you at least said you'd walk her home. So tell me something, Angel. My darling Angel." Valentino gently shakes his hands toward him, pauses for a beat of silence, and then drops a finely kept nail onto a photograph of a demon with a very particular hairstyle just barely covering antlers. "Did you see _him?_ "

Angel slowly leans forward in an effort to peer at the photographs, every inch of his body prepared to leap backward if his boss even so much as _looked_ in the direction of the now hopelessly bloodied paper cutter. His eyes catch the sight of the girl, Alice, with her pretty little smile, and he felt his heart twist a little in his chest, just before his gaze switches to the other photo, and he feels his blood go cold. He doesn’t speak for a moment, his lower hands balling into fists on his knees. “...Yeah...Yeah...I saw him.”

Within an instant, a bright teal light appeared over on the left side of the room, and it was enough to make Angel startle, leaping back in his seat. “ _Jesus-!_ ”

“I TOLD YOU! I FUCKING TOLD YOU HE WAS WITH THAT GIRL!“ Vox’s screen lights up with a loud crackling flourish, a thin spark of green electricity racing up both of his antenna as his voice rings out through the room, a wide grin on his face as he tosses back his head and laughs, his legs dangling over one arm of a wooden chair, his head currently resting on his palm. “ _Gahahahah!_ Oh man, ohhhh man, this is just too good! I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s fucking awful, the bastard got away, but I just can’t but _laugh_ because _I_ was right for once! _HAH!_ ” 

Angel’s heart starts to pound at the sound of that laugh, uproarious and confident and just so damn _smug_ , having the gall to _laugh_ in Valentino’s face, and his eyes flick to his boss, his blood running cold, swearing he was about to watch this poor fucking soul get gutted.

As it happens, Valentino merely listens to the outburst and takes a long puff from his cigar. He taps ash into the tray and finally turns to Vox, glaring for a solid minute until he got silence. "Yeah. Right _once_ out of how many times again? Uh huh. Wonderful." He turns back to Angel. "So. You saw him. Did you speak with him?"

Vox doesn’t audibly respond to the retort, but his wide, shit-eating grin doesn’t fall once. Angel blinks, staring at him for a moment before finally turning his head back to Valentino, feeling that chill along his spine again. “Uhhh...Yeah. Yeah, I talked to him. Shook hands, that sort of thing...What do you wanna know about him?”

"Everything." Valentino leans back, and waves his cigar in afterthought. "Unless you'd rather me let Vox over here have his way with you. I punished his man for fucking up. Give us a reason to not do the same to you."

Angel feels his blood chill, and he can’t help but let his gaze trail over to the man in question, who merely narrows his eyes, teeth bared in a wide, sharp grin. “You heard the cockroach, kid. Spill the beans.” 

Angel quickly averts his eyes back to the photograph of Alastor, and for a moment, his mouth hangs open. But then something clicks, and he frowns, eyes narrowing. “..Wait...” He looks back up toward Valentino. “B-Boss, with all due respect...a-are you trying to _mark_ this guy?” He taps a finger on the photo in question. “ _This guy?_ ”

Valentino narrows his eyes. "Thought that was obvious. What do you care about it? Not gonna try and go down the route of-" He brings his hands up and puts on a whiny impression of Angel. " _Oh, you should really not do this, boss_ or some crap like that. Come on, kid. Tell us what you know."

Angel can’t help but feel a small flare of irritation in the back of his mind at the absolute butchering of his accent, but he manages to squash it down just enough so that it doesn’t show on his face, and instead, he picks up the photo to turn it around so it faces Valentino. “Oh, I know plenty about this guy. Plenty enough to know that a few _asslickers-_ ” At this he can’t help but glare over towards the bat demon still cowering in his chair, one of his lower hands extending the middle finger for good measure. “-with a bunch of Chicago typewriters ain’t gonna do a god damn thing to take him down.” He sets the photo back down, taking a moment to run a hand through his hair. “With all due respect, Boss...You’re gonna have a hard time catching him. He’s the _New Orleans Butcher._ ”

Vox’s grin visibly drops with a flare of static, and his antenna crackle. The bat’s entire frame tenses up, and his one remaining ear flicks upwards.

Valentino glances between the three of them, gaze lingering on the static on Vox's face, and then sighs and leans on his desk again. He sets his cigar on the ashtray again. "Okay, okay. I got it. I'm an oldie and you all were up topside after I was. Who the fuck is the New Orleans Butcher?"

Vox is the first one to speak up, the first one to recover from the shock. “It was all over the newspapers back then. 1933, breaking story in good ol’ New Orleans. A man was found in the streets, shot dead, through the forehead. Police investigated, found out it was some fucking pig that didn’t like the look of his skin. Neighbors identified the man as “Adam Walker”, a pretty popular radio host in the area. Police decide to search his house because they wanted to find any physical evidence of the bastard who shot him possibly harassing him before the time of the crime, you know?” He lets out a heavy sigh. “Police go in, search the place..”

“Bodies.” Angel interrupts, gazing down at the photo of the smiling demon. “They find nothing but bodies. Some are just bones, pieces of them, skeletons. Others still had flesh on them, and the ones that did...” He can’t help but shudder. “They were...eaten.” He looks upwards at Valentino. “But they weren’t, like, eaten raw, no no, this guy _butchered_ people. Like, legit cut them up into pieces, hung ‘em up on hooks like they were fucking prime cuts from a pig’s belly. Police found his fridge filled to the brim with food, arranged into patties, soups, meatballs, fucking calzones, anything that could feasibly have any kind of meat in it. Shit got tested, and what do they find out? _It’s human meat._ Fucker was killing folks and cutting up their bodies into gourmet meals. And records show that he’d been doing this for _years,_ since the fucking 20’s, and the only reason he got caught at all was because some fucking prick decided to go and shoot him in the skull when he was minding his own business.” 

Angel sighs, taking a breath, eyes glancing down at the photo of Alice, a pang of guilt making his heart twist. “So...Sorry to say, Boss. But a few joe-schmoes like this asshat over here ain’t gonna cut it.” He turns to glare at the bat, lips curling into a sneer.

Valentino raises a hand as the demon goes to bark something back at him, and rubs his chin, thinking. The anger that had been in his eyes seems to have faded for the time being, and he lets out a huff of a laugh and shakes his head. “I’ll be damned. But I guess that explains how he handled my men so easily. He’s a serial killer. Also makes sense how he’s kept himself anonymous. And why. And here I was thinking it had something to do with him worrying for his own safety.” He frowns. “And he was a radio host as a human, still doing radio down here. Stuck in his own pattern. Huh.”

Angel nods softly, letting out a sigh. “Yeah. The bastard mentioned his death date, and that he used to do radio, and it all clicked. I think he could tell that I knew, too. He just kept...staring at me with that creepy smile of his.” He shudders a bit, but then points a thumb at the bat. “He was one of the guys that held me at knife-point before they went and attacked the gal’s home. I wasn’t there, so...What exactly happened?”

“Apparently _Adam_ skipped town while the girl was out of the house.” Valentino idly taps his desk, a thoughtful look on his face that slowly turns to irritation. “So the girl was the only one at the house. And Rex decided to go an’ kill her.” He scowls at him.

Angel sees the bat demon, now known as Rex, out of the corner of his eye, flinch, cowering in his seat, and it takes all the restraint he had to not immediately tackle the man to the ground and start bashing his nose in. His fists clench in his lap, his teeth grit, and he shoots the most venomous glare he can muster, feeling his right eye starting to burn as it flared with a bright red gleam. Rex, still visibly trembling, makes a futile effort in glaring right back. “Y-Yeah, I shot the brat. Go-Go fucking cry about it.”

Angel feels his eye burn even harder, his claws sharpening against his palms. “ _Oh, I’ll give you something to cry about-_ ”

Valentino’s palms slam on the desk and he stands, the paper cutter clattering from the force. “Do you want me to fuckin’ take your other ear off for ya!? You don’t kill helpless bystanders, _especially_ women, you god damned brute. We’re a fuckin’ business, not some charlatan’s back alley gang lookin’ to punch heads in! So she threw some sparks in your face. Get your fuckin’ act together or you’re gettin’ put in the fuckin’ grinder where you belong, dear _God._ ” His antennae bristle as he takes a breath and pulls back, turning to look at Angel. “Now, you. What else did this guy tell ya? Name, pass times, anything. How was he looking?”

Both Rex and Angel immediately freeze in place from where they sat, petrified of the sight of those eyes flaring with anger beyond those heart-shaped lenses, at the rage within the cockroach’s voice, and when that rage finally recedes, the both of them are as silent as the dead.

Vox let’s out a laugh, breaking the silence that fell over the room. “Aw, why’d you have to go and spoil the fun? I wanted to see who would win! My money was on the spider.” 

Angel slowly relaxes, taking a moment to adjust his clothes, wincing at the splatter of blood from the ear that had gotten tossed on him, looking back up toward Valentino as he hears him being addressed. He bites his lip for a moment, trying to think. “I...He didn’t look...good. His eyes were a bit dark, he looked a bit..thin, I want to say. Gaunt. Like a pencil. And...” He lets out a sigh. “..He mentioned something about _snapback._ ”

Vox’s antenna crackle again, and he actually sits up from his chair. “Woah, woah, woah...Snapback? As in...magic?”

Angel can’t help but nod. “Yup. His exact words were “ _I'm dealing with a bit of snapback, if you know what I mean."_

“And those were his exact words?” Valentino sits back down in his chair as Angel nods. “Sounds like he might be familiar with it, which means he probably doesn’t know his boundaries as well as he should. Also means Ed wasn’t kidding about him having weird magic.” He closes his eyes for a moment and rubs his temples. “Let’s see. Ed said the guy has strength, regeneration, endurance, _really_ sharp claws and teeth. Maybe something about speed. That’s a deadly combination for any demon, but of course he’s got the mind of a serial killer as well.” He shakes his head and opens his eyes again, looking at Angel. “And he was dealing with snapback and looked like shit when you saw him? No fuckin’ way he was on the streets when he had somewhere relatively safe to lay.”

Angel is quiet for a moment. His heart twists again, in his chest, and a fist clenches ever so softly. “...The girl told me something before we had gone into the house. Mentioned about her patient having these “fits”, as she phrased them. I dunno if it was because of the snapback or what, but all I know is that she made it quite clear that whatever they are, I should run the moment they start to act up.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” He waves a hand at him. “You should probably keep that in mind, actually. Because we still have a few issues to work out, isn’t that right?” He looks at Angel, then Rex, then Vox.

Angel blinks at that, looking over towards Vox, who lets out a chuckle, still wearing that obnoxious grin. “I’d fucking say so. If I’d have known about any of this, I would’ve sent more than a bunch of dumbasses with tommyguns.” 

Rex says nothing, nodding pathetically, still holding the stump where his ear used to be. 

Angel looks back towards Valentino, frowning, feeling his blood start to chill. “Um...W-What issues would that be, Boss?”

“We’ve been trying to pin down this guy for a few years now.” He picks up his cigar and sucks on it. “He hides himself pretty well. Runs a radio station called _Morning Smiles,_ but even Vox over here can’t track the signal. Never gives out his name, half the intrigue of his show is trying to figure out who he is, that whole thing. We’ve only known him as ‘Mr. Smiles’ since that’s what his fans call him. But now we have a little more information on the guy. Apparently his _real_ name is Adam. The name he goes by in Hell is...?”

“Alastor.”

“Alastor. And he’s a fucking psychopath who eats people.” Valentino shrugs a little. “Now, you may be thinkin’ this is some pretty simple stuff, right? Plenty of cannibals down here. There’s even restaurants for ‘em. And plenty of serial killers too. Pretty sure Jack is still runnin’ around somewhere. But!” He leans forward across his desk again, hands splayed. “We’ve been smashin’ his equipment for a while now. And you two knuckleheads not only ruined his most recent cover, but you also got his cover killed. So I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gotten a _little_ pissed off by now. And if he’s really from 1933, I can bet you a million bucks that he _was_ in that house and that he _did_ recognize those colors you wear all over the place. Which means he _probably_ has a good idea that the two of us-” He gestures to Vox. “-are workin’ together. And he’s out there on the streets right now doin’ who knows what.”

Angel feels himself tremble a bit, just a touch. He could never really tell when Valentino’s irritation fully boiled over into full blown anger, and that kind of unpredictability was enough to make his nerves quiver, his blood running cold. His voice cracks a touch when he goes to speak. “...So...What does that mean for me?“

“Well, that’s where things get fun, pumpkin.” A grin spreads over Valentino’s face and smokes covers his eyes. “You see, it kinda depends on what good ol’ Mr. Smiles does. If he’s just a little pissed with us, chances are he’ll try and tell the whole Underworld that Vox and I have a deal goin’. And we don’t want that getting out yet. We need more time. But if he’s more than just a little pissed, chances are he might be tryin’ to find a way to get payback, fight back for once. Serial killers can have a helluva patience, but when it breaks...” He chuckles lowly, shaking his head, and points at Angel and Rex. “They turn around and make you their target. So chances are, in that case, he’s already trying to find the both o’ you, and possibly even Vox and I.”

Angel feels his heart skip a beat, feels his blood chill, and he swore that he even felt his bones shudder in their sockets. He exchanged a glance with Rex, who looks just as terrified as he does, maybe more, and Angel is the only one to speak up. “...You think he’s gonna try to kill me? To kill _us?_ ” He points between himself and Rex.

“Why not? You two fucked up his hideout _while_ he was apparently sick.” Valentino taps his cigar on his tray. “You got him while he was in an insecure spot. Last I checked, serial killers don’t like that shit. But here’s the real thing. I don’t give a shit about either of you two.” He shrugs, holding his hands up. “The thing I care about is that you might’ve fucked _us_ over in some way.” He points between himself and Vox. “And I’m too busy to deal with another assassination attempt, so how about you two try your hand at trackin’ this guy down?”

Angel was silent, his jaw hanging open, a mixture of shock and confusion coursing through his mind, complete with the nagging voice in the back of his head that whispered to him of how stupid he was. Of course Valentino wouldn’t bother keeping him around. Of course the bastard would be oh so content with just throwing him to the wolves and let him potentially be hunted down and torn apart by a deranged killer. Of course he would be. He wasn’t anything to this man. He was no one, a fuck up that needed to make up for his failures. He wanted to be angry. He wanted oh so badly to just punch this fucker right in the face and knock those glasses off and stomp them into pieces under his boot heel. But all he felt was just a crumbling sense of disappointment and expectancy. 

He sighs, and nods softly. “Yeah, sure.” His eye flicks to the photo of Alice. “..What about the girl, Boss? Sure, she got shot in the head, but she must’ve reset by now, right?”

“Pro’ly” He shrugs. “Some take longer, but if someone got the bullet out? Probably didn’t take too long.”

“Now, wait a moment.” Rex leans forward an inch, still trembling. “You want us to go after this guy? Just us? You just said you’d need more than a bunch of guys with tommys!”

“I don’t want ya killin’ him right off.” Valentino huffs. “I want you two to _find him._ That’s it. Report anything you find out about him to me. I don’t know what I want to do with him when we find him, but I’ll figure that out along the way. The important thing is to try and make sure we know what he’s doing without him knowing we’re tracking him. And as strange as it sounds, I think you two might be able to pull it off.”

“And if you can’t, well, at least you two will be dead for a bit.” Vox shrugs, a wicked grin still on his face. “Maybe even more than that depending on if good ol ‘Smiles still has any tricks up his sleeve.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too.” Angel rolls his eyes, softly. 

“Ohoho, I like this guy!”

“Yeah, sure, fuck him on your own time.” Valentino leans back and carefully props his feet up on a part of his desk not wet with blood. “So we good here or do I need to repeat myself?”

Angel and Rex slowly glance at each other for a moment, before they both look back and nod, speaking in unison. “Yes, Boss.”

“Good. Now get movin’.” He waves a hand at them. “Every minute you’re sittin’ here is a minute you can spend finding this guy.”

Another unified nod, and the two stand from their chairs, Rex wobbling ever so slightly as he does so, grimacing from the pain, walking toward the door. Angel turns for a moment, pauses, and then turns back. “Um...Boss...If any of your men find the girl again...” He hesitates for a moment. “...She doesn’t need to get involved in this. She’s just a poor kid who’s new in Hell and does good by fixing people up she finds on the street. She probably doesn’t even know who this man is. So...” He hesitates again, his fists trembling a bit. “...Please let the gal go. If your guys see her.”

Valentino watches him for a moment. “If she messes with my business, she’s involvin’ herself. She’s been told to back off. But if you can tell her she’s workin’ on the wrong side of all this...” He shrugs. “One thing at a time, kid. You know how it is.”

Angel tries to pretend like his heart doesn’t sink a bit at hearing those words, tries to pretend like he doesn’t feel a twinge of anger that makes him want to stomp his boot on that bastard’s neck. Instead, he merely takes a deep breath, nods, and turns away again. “I understand.” He slowly walks towards the door, letting it shut behind him. 

There was a soft silence in the room for a moment, before Vox let’s out a chuckle, a low one, his antenna sparking once more. “To think...To think that this little twig of a man we had been chasing after was the god damn _New Orleans Butcher_ this whole time. Fucking insane.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds like the guy had an impact if news hit New York and Chicago about it.” Valentino looks over at him. “How’d you find out about him? Anything Angel left out?”

“Hmm..” Vox tilts his head a bit. “Well, as you can imagine, the news went fucking nuts over this guy. Journalists, book writers, spiritualists trying to commune with him from beyond the dead, that type of shit. A lot of details got revealed. His mother was Native American, his father was the regular old white Christian man. He used to hunt deer as a kid, became a butcher to make end’s meat...” His grin widens. “And then good ol’ 1918 came around and he was at that perfect age to keep the cogs of the war machine nice and greased up.”

“Fuckin’ Hell.” Valentino drops his head back. “You tellin’ me this guy was in World War One? He’s a vet?”

“Yyuuuuuup.” His grin widens, his teeth a bright white hue, glittering like a shark’s. “Explained why no one suspected him of anything, doesn’t it? The poor guy was a kid that lived through hell and got back to the US of A _right_ when booze was pulled from the shelves. Of course no one looked his way.”

“And he’s got a radio gig, and he’s good at talkin’. If he’s got fans down here, I can only imagine what he managed to get up there.” He shakes his head. “How much you wanna bet those two die more than once tryin’ to find him?”

“How much you willing to give?”

Valentino smirks. “You want a car?”

Vox’s grin practically curls. “Fuck yeah I want a car.”

•••

“...And by the end of the day, a group of Vox’s men went and shot up her house.” Alastor waves his glass in punctuation and takes a sip of the “wine” that had been offered him. Rosie sits across from him, hands tabled under her chin as she nods to his telling of the story. When they had first arrived at the restaurant, plenty of eyes had swiveled their way, but now they were left mostly anonymous and free to discuss anything without interruption. Rosie had insisted on this particular venue due to their selection in fine wines, and while Alastor was in no way a day drinker (or a wine drinker), he had been pleasantly surprised to find the “Fifty Percent” was in fact an average red wine cut with demon blood. Not exactly proper food for him, but perhaps the one and only item he’d ever encountered in a restaurant that would come close to filling his needs. “Guess what happened next.”

“Hmm..” Her sockets narrow slightly. “Considering you’re here in front of me, I’m going to guess they _didn’t_ find you?”

Alastor grins sharply. "Turns out Nifty has a little escape hatch under her floorboards, and she shoves me down into it and then closes the door behind me." One of his brows raise. "Two year demon looks at least six armed men in the eyes and says, _Try me._ The girl has guts. And they got her killed." His eyes dart to the side and he takes another sip of blood wine.

“Really?” She tilts her head ever so slightly, her expression shifting into surprise, though a grin does tug on her lips. “Sounds like quite the gal.” The grin then drops a bit. “I mean... I’m assuming she’s fine now. Is she?”

"Of course." He waves a hand, though he doesn't quite look at her. "Once the brutes left, I took her somewhere relatively safe and removed the bullet and everything. She's actually nearby. I brought her with, but I figured you'd want to chat with me for a while in private. She had an errand anyways, so it all worked out."

“Well, I look forward to meeting her then.” She looks down towards Alastor’s plate, seeing that the steak was relatively untouched, as was the mashed potatoes, and her eyes narrow. “..Come on, Al. You need to eat _something._ ”

"I _am_ eating." He waves his hand holding his wine, then lowers it to the table with a chuckle. "Pardon me. I get carried away with telling stories. You know how I am." He picks up his fork and knife and starts cutting into the meat. "I think you'll like her! She definitely knows a thing or two, and she's an easy talker."

“I can imagine she does, considering she knew how to properly fix you up. Not many demons who specialize in medical science down here.” She watches as the steak is cut into smaller pieces, and she can’t help but grin. “Let me know how it tastes; I’d eat here myself, seeing as this cafe is one of my finer establishments, but...” She takes a glance around the rest of the room, at the many other demons who were sitting at their own tables and enjoying their meals. “...Human cannibalism was never something that appealed to me.”

"Hmm, what a shame. You should try it some time." He grins widely again, letting her know it's all in jest. "I have to admit that I never expected cannibalism to be particularly welcome in Hell, despite Hell being Hell."

“Neither did I.” She shrugs softly. “But hey, it’s just another business, I suppose. Not entirely sure _where_ they get the human meat from, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a group of demons that tend to... _collect_ their “cattle” straight from the source, if you get what I mean.”

"This one tastes like Kansas." He slips another cube of meat into his mouth and chews in silence.

She raises a brow, her grin dripping for a moment. “...Are you just messing with me? Or are you serious?”

He snorts and covers his mouth, swallowing quickly and snickering. "Oh my God, the look on your face! Haha! _Tastes like Kansas._ " His shoulders shake.

“Oh, you little-!” She huffs, her bangs blowing upwards slightly as she does so, crossing her arms. “That ain’t funny! That ain’t funny at all!”

"It is funny because you fell for it." He shakes his head quickly, still laughing softly, and skewers another cube onto his fork. "But this is, uh, rather decent, I'd say. Rather fresh, if you want to know."

“Well, nice to know the chefs are doing their jobs...” She goes silent for a moment. “...If you like this type of food so much, why don’t I see you down here more often, Al?”

"Because there's a matter of need that comes before want." He eats another cube and tilts his head looking up at her as if that were obvious.

She raises a brow at that, frowning in slight irritation. “Well, yes, of course, but even then, I thought I’d still at least be seeing you down here at least a month or two. I haven’t seen you at all for the past _five_ months, Al.”

"I've found a steady supply recently." Not necessarily a lie, but not the full truth either. He eats more of the steak he had been neglecting throughout the rest of their conversation.

“From _where_ ?” Her face wrinkles slightly in disgust. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve been going to the _Market_ in order to find it. You and I both know that place is full of nothing but washed up rubbish and grimy vendors that get their wares from the garbage. Wouldn’t be surprised if the meat you got from there was just the slice of a cow with the name “Andrew” slapped onto it.”

"I know my steak from _steak_ , Rosie." The thought amuses him, though, and it shows on his face. "Just someone on the street I lived on. Had some connections. I didn't ask many questions, and he didn't either."

“Did you ask his name?” She raises a brow. “At least let me check this man out so I can determine if he isn’t some scam.”

"I've already checked him out." He rolls his eyes. "Five months ago. Before I even formally met him. Plus, if it was a scam, we'd both know it, wouldn't we?"

“...I suppose so.” She narrows her eyes a bit.

He catches her gaze and sighs softly. “I’ve been doing fine, Rosie. You really don’t need to worry so much.”

“Clearly I do if you keep getting yourself into trouble.”

“Since when have reporters not gotten themselves habitually into trouble?” He snickers. “Anyone who takes on those highbinders gets a little heat thrown their way. It’s all part of the job. And you have to admit, I’m doing better than the forties. A lot better.” He looks down at his plate and sees half the steak gone, and grabs his glass of wine instead and takes a hearty sip.

“Hmm...Perhaps, but I don’t want things to get that bad again, Al. The 40’s were horrible and we both know it.”

“Of course, of course. I don’t think it’ll ever get that bad again. I was still figuring out how the hunger worked and all.” He props his head on his hand, one elbow on the table, and sighs dramatically. “I don’t know how I survived without my radio station. So bored. No outlet for my creativity. How wretched I must’ve been.”

Rosie nods softly, and then blinks. “..The hunger?”

“The urge to eat, yes.” Alastor blinks owlishly. “I had a horrible diet back then.”

“Ah, I see. Sorry, you just...phrased it oddly.”

“Ah, apologies.” He shows his teeth in another grin. “Maybe I’m more tired than I first thought. Maybe it’s just my full stomach speaking.”

“Hmm.” She goes quiet for a moment. “...So you said you came here to ask for my help?”

“Yes.” He straightens and brings his hands to the edge of the table. “I’d like to cash in my last favor with you. For a house.”

She blinks at that. “Really? Your last favor? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Alastor nods emphatically. “Usually I’d simply find another on my own, but I get the impression that the gangs are... maybe a little too curious this time around.” His brows furrow. “And I’m... I know this may seem strange coming from me, but I’d rather use this for Nifty.” He looks her in the eyes. “I want it to be a house for her.”

Rosie stares for a moment, frowning. “For her? Then where will you stay?”

“I can find my own house.” He shakes his head at the look she gives him. “I _can._ Nifty is new to house hopping, and I’ve put an extra mark on her back. I can’t simply say _Thanks_ and leave her like that. It’s not a fair trade.”

“Yes, but I think it’s quite clear that you can’t just _run away_ now either. Both Vox and Valentino are after you now, you know that, right? That means _two_ Overlords want you _dead._ ”

“That may be the case, but I can still handle them. I know I don’t look it right now, but I _can._ And from what they’ve said, it seems more like they’d rather talk than necessarily kill me.” He huffs at the thought, not certain if that would help or hinder his case.

“Are you _sure_ about that?” She raises a brow incredulously.

“Mostly.”

“Al, you can’t be “mostly sure” with _Overlords._ They can and _will_ kill you if they get the chance. There isn’t a single second I don’t doubt in my mind that Valentino has _some_ kind of contact that let him get his damn hands on a holy weapon. Are you really going to risk that?”

He inhales noisily as she starts telling him off - with logic, and of course he can’t fight logic - and exhales at the comment of a holy weapon. He trills his claws against the table. “Rosie, I can’t in good conscience get a house for myself and not Nifty. If something were to happen to her after all that’s happened, all she’s done for me....”

“Then why can’t you just both move into the same house?”

Alastor’s ears twitch and his eyes widen. He really hadn’t thought of it. The both of them needed a house, so living together... Eck. He feels himself wince before he can stop it, and lets his eyes dart about as he realizes he’s lost in a couple different ways. “I don’t... I mean, that would be the most efficient, I suppose, but.... It’s not like we are...” His nose wrinkles again. “I don’t want the neighbors to talk. And they will talk. And I won’t like it.”

Rosie makes a motion not unlike rolling her eyes, though it was hard to tell with the piercingly empty sockets. “Ugh. So you’re just going to give the girl a house while you get hunted down in the streets like a dog. Brilliant plan there.”

He winces for real at the simile and averts his gaze. “I-... Hm.” He taps the table, then picks up his wine glass again and finishes it off.

“I’m right and you know it.” Rosie narrows her eyes, folding her arms. “Come on, Alastor, don’t be an idiot.”

He taps a few more times, then sighs, closing his eyes. “Okay, fine. Two bedroom house. But if it’s both of us, then we need our own separate stations. She’d need room for patients if she finds any, and medicine cabinets, and so on. And I would need room for my radio equipment and set up, preferably in such a way that no one who’s in the house can hear me while I do my show.”

Rosie’s eyes narrow a touch and she hums to herself, a hand coming up to tap her chin. “Hmm...Let’s see...You’re probably going to need a house with a large basement then, at least 2 rooms that can be easily remodeled into working spaces...Yes, yes...” She snaps her fingers. “I think I have the perfect one.”

“You do?” His eyes click open and he tilts his head. “It’s not on the East side, right? That’s where I was last.”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s more toward the Northwest. Is that alright?”

“Hmm...” He considers the list of houses he had taken residence in over the years and slowly nods. “I think that should be fine.”

“Perfect.” She glances down at the half-eaten steak, grimaces slightly, before standing up from her seat. “Come along, then. We can get a good view of it from the top of the building.”

“Ah, binoculars? Or spyglass?” He grins and stands from his seat, straightening his already straight clothes. One of his brows jump. “Or neither, and it’s close enough that you can keep an eye on me like old times?”

“Spyglass, I believe. Can’t always have you on a leash, I’m afraid.” She flashes a cheeky grin.

He rolls his eyes and chuckles as he shakes his head. “I’ll have to agree with you on that one. I’m more liable to chew it off than not.” He offers her his arm, out of habit. “May I?”

This time it was her rolling her eyes, and she loops her arm through his. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d call you a sappy old man.”

“I suppose I can agree with being old and a man, but I rather prefer gentlemanly than anything else.” He chuckles and starts walking, ignoring the looks he was getting.

“Pfft. Sure you are.” She rolls her eyes again.

•••

Angel Dust couldn’t help but stand there in absolute shock, his mouth hung open slightly, staring at the sight of that small little shack, absolutely littered top to bottom with bullet holes. The windows were gone completely, the door was gone from the entrance, and the silence from the surrounding area was deafening. He couldn’t help but let his fists clench, trembling for a moment, before turning to glare towards Rex with absolute venom. “If we weren’t in danger of having our asses either eviscerated by a psycho killer or taken out back and shot between the eyes by our bosses, I would be beating your fucking face in with a lead pipe right now.”

Rex glowers at him, subtly showing off his fangs. His ear had been bandaged before they left, but it already looked like blood was starting to soak through. “Ah, fuck you too. We did our job. _This_ was just to get that creep, Alastor. You heard Valentino. He has some fucked up magic. The only thing I know to do with that is keep them pinned and keep on shooting.” He steps toward the house. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

Angel feels his teeth grit, and he can’t help but scowl, idly wishing that Valentino had done the world a favor and chopped off _both_ his ears. After a moment, though, he finally gives in and starts to walk towards the house himself, stepping inside, letting his eyes glance around the living room, and what he saw wasn’t pretty. Scorch marks, bullet holes, trashed furniture that looked either shot to shit or burned to ash, and a big puddle of what looked to be dried blood, right in the middle of it. He crouches down to touch it, eyes narrowing slightly. 

Rex folds his arms as he surveys the room, claws idly trilling as he does so. “This was where we found the girl. Had her pinned down, kept asking her where the freak was. She kept screaming that he wasn’t here, but I didn’t buy it. Had the boys search the place. Found nothing but empty rooms.”

“Right.” Angel exhales, feeling the tackiness of the blood, and slowly stands back up. “Val said he must’ve been in the house, though. Are you sure they checked everythin’? All the closets and loose ceilin’ tiles?”

“Yeah, course we did. We found a back room that might’ve been where she was hiding him, but the bed was flipped over and the room had a window. He must’ve bailed before we showed up; there ain’t any other way he could’ve gotten away.”

Angel stares at him for a moment. “Show me. Which room? I wanna see this.”

Rex’s remaining ear flicks, and he sighs, before starting to walk deeper into the house. “This way.”

Angel follows, crossing his arms and glancing at more bullet holes and fallen chunks of plaster. If the place hadn't already been condemned, it better be now. "You know, if you spent anymore bullets on this place, you'd probably have made the whole thing collapse."

“How the fuck do you know that?” He glances back toward him.

"Because I've seen it happen." He gives him a blank look. "Also, this place is old as shit. Thought that was pretty obvious."

“Ugh, just shut up, ok? I ain’t fucking happy with any of this either. And I sure as hell don’t want anything to do with you. But I don’t exactly want to go pissing off your cockroach of a boss again.” His ear flicks, and he suppresses a wince. The end of the hall opens up into a room, and he flicks a hand towards it. “There it is.”

"Yeah, yeah..." Angel looks over to the room, then passes him and walks inside. "Oh, shit." All the cabinets are wide open, drawers hanging limply from their shelves, completely empty. A bucket of bloody bandages sits in a corner, fallen over, and a bed is overturned in the center of the room. "Wow. Yeah. This doesn't look right. Was this like this when you left?"

“Yup, sure was.” Rex nods softly. “I didn’t get a look at it myself; one of the boys did. I was in the living room with the girl, and when he shouted out that he found a back room, she went ballistic.” He grimaces at the memory, scowling, showing off sharp teeth. “Turns out she has fire magic.”

"Yeah, well...." He points at all the drawers and open cabinets. "Someone took all her medical equipment." Angel steps toward the bed, and then looks at the window, glass shattered on the ground. "And he didn't break the window, you guys did."

Rex is silent for a moment, his eyes flicking toward the spots that Angel was pointing out, and he frowns, his face contorting with both simmering anger and complete confusion. “You’re fucking with me. There’s no way he could’ve still been here when we jumped the place. All the rooms were empty. There was no sign of him anywhere.”

"Unless he had a really good hiding place. Or came back later? Coulda been in another house or somethin', but plenty of places this old have secret hiding spots an' shit." Angel rubs his chin, looking around the room. "Hmm.... If I were to hide a stash here, where would it be?"

Rex is silent for a few moments, his expression fading away into a more concentrated look. “...Usually in the walls...Or under the floorboards.”

"And ya shot through the walls plenty enough." He looks at the ground, them stomps his foot. He frowns, then starts stomping his feet in other places of the room. "Come on.... Speak to me...."

Rex is silent, merely watching as Angel slowly makes his way around the room. Each and every clack of his heels rang up through the air, accompanied by the solid thud of the floorboards. He paced up and down the room, up and down, eyes narrowed in an effort to determine where exactly a hollow spot would be placed. It’s only when his heel stomps down on a board next to the bed does he hear a hollow creak. "Hah!" He stomps rapidly right around the spot, hearing more of that hollow note. "Must be under the bed or something." He kneels down and grabs the bed, trying to heave it upright. “ _Hnngh!_ ” He hears the screeching of the metal as it grinds against the floor, gritting his teeth from the sound, letting his other arms come up to grab what he can of the bedframe, slowly lifting it up off the floor, moving it until it was away to the side entirely, to which he lets it drop. 

Rex’s eyes go wide, and his jaw drops. “No fucking way...”

Angel huffs, wiping his brow with one hand, and looks over at Rex. “I know, that thing must’a been made of pure iron or.....” He trails off, blinking at the ground as he catches sight of a hole in the ground, fit with an old ladder and descending into a dark room. “Whoa. That’s more than just hollow floorboards.”

“Son of a bitch...” Rex shakes his head, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Under the bed. The one fucking place we didn’t look was under the fucking bed.”

“Hey, no one looks under beds. Not really anyways.” Angel crosses his arms and leans over the hole. “You see in the dark at all? ‘Cause I can’t and it looks _pretty_ fuckin’ dark down there.”

“I mean...I think I can?” He looks a bit unsure himself but walks toward the hole anyways, crouching down next to the rim, eyes narrowing as he does so. “...Really fucking old room, from what I can see. Looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.” He notices the ladder and runs a hand over one of the bars. “Hmm. Rusted.”

“Huh.” Angel crouches on the other side of the hole, then goes still as ice runs down his spine. “Er, hey, Rex, right?”

“Yeah?” His ear flicks as he looks up at him. “What is it?”

“If this was where he was hiding, right?” His voice lowers and he points at the hole. “And the bed wasn’t moved from on top of it...” Another hand points back at the bed. “And the guy was dealing with an illness of some kind....”

“...What are you trying to say?” He looks confused, though a twinge of caution appears in his eyes as they flick back and forth from the bed to the hole.

“Well, uh... Is it possible he’s down there still?”

His eyes widen, his pupils shrink, and his remaining ear flattens against the back of his head. He suddenly becomes very, _very_ still, and he doesn’t say a word for a moment, his voice a tight whisper. “..I...I _think_ we woulda known by now if he was...”

"Ah...." He frowns, glancing between him and the hole for a moment. "Yeah, but... ya shot up the house, right? Unless he got down here real quick.... Who knows?"

“..So what the fuck do you want me to do? Poke my head down in that hole so I can get it ripped off?”

"I - I don't know!" He tosses his hands in the air. Another thought crosses his mind and he cringes. "Well, uh, maybe he wouldn't immediately go for the kill if he saw me?"

“Tch, if you want to fucking go down there and get your ribs ripped oughta your chest, be my fucking guest.” He waves a hand toward the hole, eyes narrowing in a glare. “But if I lose another ear because you were a dumbass and got yourself killed, I’m finding your corpse and kicking your face in.”

"Yeah, yeah, you fuckin' wimp." He exhales, rolling his shoulders before leaning over the hole. "Hey, uh, Alastor? It's Angel. I'm comin' down. If you're down there." He takes a breath and steps onto the ladder. There was nothing but silence, the clacking of his heels against the rusted piping that made up the ladder ringing in his ears and making a faint echo around what little space he could perceive of the room. When his shoes finally touch the floor, he’s met with the sound of crunching gravel, and nothing but the faint stench of stale, dusty air. He squints in the half light of the room, the vague rays of light coming from above him. He looks about, seeing the outlines of pipes sticking out of the ceiling, but no shape of a body on the ground, or within range of sight. He clears his throat, desperately looking about the room. "Ah.... I'm not, uh, seein' anyone."

“You sure?” Rex’s head slowly peeks over the rim of the hole.

"I, uh. Yeah." He turns around, giving the room another glance before looking up at him. "I think his teeth glow in the dark. Well. Light up at times."

“Christ on a fucking bike, what kind of demon are we dealing with here?” He runs a hand over his remaining ear, before letting out a sigh. “Ok, so he’s not here. Do you see anything down there at all? Shoe prints, blood spots, anything that shows that he _was_ down there at some point?”

"Ah." He looks around, then down at the ground. "There's a few drops of blood." His eyes trace a few dots that recedes into the fringes of the darkness. "Straight line away from the ladder."

“Hmm...” His eyes narrow. “Ok, so some of the bullets _did_ hit him when we shot up the place. He got shot, needed to hide, uncovered the hole and hid down there while the girl tried to make us think he left.”

"Yeah, looks like it. Fuckin' bastard." Angel exhales, then starts climbing the ladder back to the room. "So what did he do after that? Run off?"

“If he ain’t here, he must have.” Rex takes a step back as he does so, his ear twitching, eyes narrowed. “And the girl ain’t here either. But the bullet didn’t exactly pop out the back of the skull, so...”

Angel stops with his elbows on the floor, still half in the hole in the ground. "You think he helped her or somethin'?"

“Maybe.” He shrugs softly. “Or maybe the wound just slowly grew back in and eventually spat the bullet out.”

"Right, yeah." He pushes himself up and brushes off his clothes. "So where should we look next? Can't exactly find much in a wrecked house like this." His eyes dart over the cabinets again. They really did look picked clean.

“Well...He’s gotta be around here _somewhere._ Had my men search the entire damn street right as we left the place. Didn’t find hide nor hair of him.”

"Well, maybe he left after you did. That's what I woulda done." Angel puts a hand on his hip. "If he heard the gunshot, he'd know she was dead. And there's no use jumpin' from a hiding spot when the only person who knows where you are is dead." He levels a glare on Rex. "You know, a part of me really hopes ya get your ass killed because of this. Ya really don't know what you're doin'."

Rex’s ear twitches back, and he growls, lips curled back to bear his teeth. “If I’d have known that I was chasing after the god damn _boogeyman_ instead of some pencil-neck radio chatterbox, I probably wouldn’t have shot her, ok? Are you happy now? Sure, I knew the guy was a bit of a freak, yeah, ripped a bunch of Val’s men to pieces, but who fucking hasn’t down here? With flying snake men piloting laser blimps and fucking men with _TV heads_ walking around, pardon me if I happened to underestimate an injured man who I’ve been told took a buckshot, point blank, to the fucking _stomach_ just days before we found him out.”

"That's not the-" Angel blinks. " _Buckshot to the stomach?_ Geez, he just looked like he had the flu or somethin'. Wait. Guh. Never mind that." He shakes his head. "The thing is, you just don't kill helpless people like that because thats how you piss people off. That's why we're in this situation to begin with, alright?" He exhales and rubs between his eyes, starting to walk out of the room. "Mafias know that the one way to start a blood feud outside of weird marriage crap is to kill a kid or a gal. Textbook stuff."

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that?” Rex follows behind, arms crossed, scowling in irritation. “It’s not like she didn’t have it coming. She hit me in the face with _fire._ ”

"There are tons of pyros down here, sheesh." He rolls his eyes. "Maybe you just ain't cut out for mafia work."

“I’m not used to this kind of shit, alright? It’s not like you have any fucking room to talk! I’m out here actually doing the fucking work, and where are you? Out in the back alleys of the fucking South side choking back some asshat’s cock? Yeah, _real_ fucking classy there. _Really_ making your fucking bug pimp proud.”

"Hey!" He whirls around and jabs a finger on his chest. "What I do is work too, you fuckin' bootlicking, murder-for-hire shit stain! I ain't just suckin' cocks, and even if I was, I'm suckin' more 'en you ever have, so back off. And you know what else? I do have fuckin room to talk, and probably more than you got too! I know the routes of every single gang down here in the East side down to a fuckin' pebble, which, if you haven't noticed, is how we got here so quickly without getting some loons wavin' bats at us. And you wanna talk about _class?_ Murderin' some poor doll who's already livin' in a shitty house that _you_ made shittier?"

Rex’s ear shoots upward as he gets jabbed at, his eyes widening in shock, but that shock is quickly washed away by anger, and he slaps his hand away. “First off, sucking more dick than me is _not a fucking accomplishment,_ so just knock that shit right off. Second, why the fuck do you even care so much about some stupid ditz that got what was coming to her for dragging in strangers off the streets? She’s in the middle of gang territory, you think she’d know not to go off helping people that would stab her in the gut as soon as they got the fucking chance. And even then, if you fucking care about her so much, then why the fuck didn’t you tell her that she was hiding the god damn _New Orleans Butcher_ in her house, then? Huh? Huh??” Rex’s eyes narrow and he jabs Angel in the chest right back. “Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you just _be the hero_ and warn her right there when you saw the man that a goddamn serial killer is sleeping in her guest bed and probably planning on doing God knows what to her? Fucker probably took her body when he left, dug up the bullet to make up some fucking sob story to trick the little brat into doing his dirty work. You think she was in hot water before? Well, guess what, _pal_ , you just fucking left her in the claws of a god damn _monster._ ”

Angel stumbles back half a step from the poke, about to snap back with a witty remark, but all the words die on his tongue. Everything he had been telling himself to forget the entire incident, to tell himself Alastor's face _wasn't_ the one he saw in the papers, that it was all a coincidence and he had seemed nice enough, if a little weird, but this was Hell and who was he to judge? All of it comes back to the surface. He clenches his fists in an effort to ignore the burning in his eyes. "I ain't no hero. I know that. I've never been hero material. But I know enough that callin' out a bigshot like that in front of someone they've gotten close to _in any way_ woulda only made shit worse. And I didn't expect _you-_ " He jabs a finger in his face. "-to go and kill her and give her more reason to stick around with him. That shit's on you. I'm getting her out of this mess, but you better _know_ that _you_ turned up the heat on her. _Not. Me._ "

He turns away and stalks out of the house without waiting for another comment.

•••

"Hmm.... I don't know. A little too prominent for my tastes." Alastor presses a spyglass to his left eye, peering out over the surrounding buildings and to a row of homes in the north. "I usually go for smaller homes."

"You usually live alone. It's meant for at least two people, built to hold more."

"I don't know. The street looks a little odd."

"Alastor, it's a perfectly fine street."

"Something about it gives me the heebie-jeebies."

“You’re being dramatic.” Rosie huffs quietly, rolling her sockets as she crosses her arms. “It’s in a corner, it’s meant for two people, it’s got a front porch, what is wrong with it?”

"Hmm. Well. I don't know exactly, but it's got a.... thing about it." He waves his hand, wiggling his fingers in emphasis. "Like someone's put a curse on it or something. Or maybe a hellhound visited recently. One or the other."

“And you can tell just by looking at all the way up here, through a spyglass, 10 miles away?”

"Yes, actually. I'm a specialist. An incredibly fine specialist. Ten quid and I'll exorcise a whole house. You know. The usual." He smirks. "On a more serious note, it does have a certain look to it that I don't like. What do they call it these days? Auras?"

“I believe so.” She raises an incredulous brow. “And I’m sure I would’ve spotted it and purged whatever it was that was causing it. You really think I would just toss my clients unkempt houses that had over 5 murders in them? Hand them the keys while blood still stains the carpet?”

"Of course not, dear. But murder isn't the only way to curse a place, you know." Alastor scans the houses next to the one in question, then hums as he turns the glass to the skies, seeking out any streaks of gold and black amidst the red gloom of the Hell.

“What do you mean it isn’t-...What are you doing?”

"Being curious." He leans his elbows on the metal railing and shifts the lens a few degrees.

“Curious about what? Are you looking for Heaven or something? Why on Earth are you looking up there?” 

At first he sees nothing but clouds, but then he manages to spot something. A small, tiny blimp, chugging along the sky, long fins lining it’s sides and topside, with a bulky metal underbelly.

"Ah! There he is." His smile curls, though perhaps more at the game he was playing with Rosie than anything else. "No matter how much I try to track his flight patterns, I can't figure out where he'd be next."

“What?!” Rosie’s voice rises, filled with panic, and before Alastor can move, the spyglass is snatched from his hands, and she raises it into the air almost as if she was about to smack him with it. “Alastor, those are Sir Pentious’s _scout_ ships! Do you have any idea how much trouble I’d be in if they spotted you looking up at them like that?! I run a _business_ goddamn it, I can’t risk looking like a potential threat!”

All he does is chuckle, though his head does duck slightly at her own threat. "Don't worry. It's not like he's _that_ omniscient. The glass isn't even from his factories."

She sighs, lowering the spyglass and sliding it shut, eyes narrowed in a scowl. “Its still a risk, Alastor. It’s damn hard enough that I’m stuck in the City’s center, surrounded by the stuffy idiots that are Lucifer’s pet attack dogs, I don’t need a serpent warlord breathing down my neck as well. Yes, Valentino may be wise enough to understand that killing the Emporium would kill at least 70% of his own operations, and Vox is at least kept on a leash, but do you really think someone like _Pentious_ couldn’t just swoop in and pick up the pieces when he’s done? The very same man that gave _cars_ to all of _Hell?_ ”

"The very same man who gave _electricity_ to all of Hell. If my sources are correct." Alastor turns to face her, elbows still on the railing as he leans against it. "From what I can tell, he's the one man who takes things slowly around here. If he had an issue with you, he'd probably make contact first. After all, your interests parallel one another."

She sighs again, although it’s more of a groan, her sockets closing for a moment before she shoots a pointed look towards him. “Why are you trying to glance at his scouting ships anyways?”

"Research for a follow up piece." He shrugs simply. "I don't know when I'll be getting my equipment up and running again, but I'd like to do a longer segment on what gave me an impromptu vacation. Preferably after I play a little Chuck Berry, 'You Can't Catch Me.'" He grins toothily.

“Poking the bear with a stick as always.” She rolls her eyes again, letting her own eyes drift upwards towards the sky, moving to lean on the railing herself. “What exactly are you going to be noting in this “longer piece?”

"Hmm...." He follows her gaze to the ship. "Not quite sure! Maybe speculation on his recent discoveries. Maybe a brief history. _Earth's greatest inventor turned Hell's finest conquerer._ " His hand arcs in front of him, painting the headline. "Something along those lines."

“Pfft. You say something like that and I’m sure you’ll have the bastard swooning like a damsel.” She chuckles. “I’ve seen him only once, but it only takes one look to know that he is a straight up egotist.”

Alastor chuckles right back. "If anyone has a right to be confident and arrogant in their own skills it's him, I will say that much."

She nods softly. “I will admit that is true, yes.” She’s quiet for a second, then hands him back the spyglass. “Keep on looking for a good house. Otherwise we’ll be standing up here for nothing.”

"Of course." He takes it back and turns back around, eyeing the streets before raising the spyglass to his eye and looking over the houses. "Hmm.... Most of the ones in this district are open, you said?"

“Yup. Normally they’re only sold to auctioneers, but I’m sure I can find one for you and your little friend.” She idly rolls a coin back and forth between her fingers, almost smugly, a coin that happens to have her face on it.

"Hmm.... Then what about this blue one here? White windowsills. White picket fence." Humor tinges his voice at the last one and he pulls his eye away without moving the glass. "What's it got in it?"

“Oh, #42?” She blinks at that, humming softly, still rolling and fiddling with the coin. “2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, backyard, I think there’s room down in the basement, a second offshoot room on the second floor. Oh, there’s also an attic, I believe. Like, an attic that you can feasibly walk around in.”

"Hm." He nods appreciatively, considering the space. Depending on the typical day to day action, he may be able to get a little garden in the backyard. Fresh greens went a long way in a dish. And an attic and a basement. Smaller basement. But also an attic. He'd keep it in mind. "And the one next to it? Yellow fence, white walls, white windows."

“43 has...I believe two bedrooms, _one_ bathroom, a large basement, no attic, but it also has a backyard and I believe even an outdoor pool. Though I don’t think you’ll want that, do you?”

He wrinkles his nose and dips down to the spyglass again. "Too much to manage. How about the other side? Red roof, black windows, white walls."

“44, one bathroom, 2 bedrooms, kitchen, living room, a basement with a garage in the backyard, and I believe two offshoot rooms that are currently empty.”

"Hmm...." He doesnt care much for the garage, though he guesses it could come in handy at a later date, if he ever wanted a car, though he doubted he would. Or he could use it for extra space. Garages also meant extra entrances into the building. "Further down, there's one without a fence, black door, navy windows?"

“Ah, yes, 51. Lets see...3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, deluxe kitchen, living room, 3 offshoot rooms, a large basement and the third bedroom is located in the attic. It also has a fire escape in the back.”

Alastor goes still at that, doing the math and going over the mental checklist. An extra bedroom for a medical area; practical. Three open spaces; at least one for each of them, and the last could be decided later. Attic _and_ basement, but this time the attic was smaller, but conveniently placed. And a _fire escape._ Hah! If anything ever did happen, they'd have an easy way out. Or an easy way in for intruders. But also noisy in that case. He recalls the _delux kitchen_ comment and pulls away from the spyglass, looking at Rosie with a brow raised. "How delux is the kitchen?"

She grins at that, looking a bit more cocky than before. “It’s got the best kitchen tech down here, or at least the top of the line. Microwaves, a full length-fridge, dishwasher. I even managed to get an electric stove in there.”

"Oh, how fancy." He straightens, tapping the spyglass with his nails. "Electric _does_ mean we wouldn't have to deal with gas companies...." There'd be a lot of space for just two people, but he wouldn't mind it. He liked having space. Nifty however... He didn't know what precisely she liked in a house, or what she was used to, but he imagined that the space would be good for her as well.

“Well? Which one sounds the best?” She wiggles the coin in her hand. “This is your last favor. Spend it well.”

"Hmm." He considers 42, which also had a backyard, though he wasn't entirely sure how much he'd actually use it. 51 was clearly the superior, more lavish house to choose. And he really wouldn't mind cleaning the extra space. It would give him something else to do. But at the same time, less space could be better for the two of them. Or worse given the possibility of a third individual. And he really wanted that kitchen, though he didn't necessarily need it.

“I personally would pick 51; a few of the posher sort have been eyeballing it, and, well, it’s not like they can say _no_ to me.” She chuckles, grin turning a bit more sadistic.

"Oh, _fine._ " He tosses his hands, chuckling, and hands the spyglass to her. "51. We'll both get some fun out of it."

“ _Perfect._ ” She snaps her fingers, and with a flash of flame, the coin is gone completely, and is replaced by a ring of keys, to which she hands it over. “You’ll be needing these.”

"Thank you." He holds his hand out and closes his fist when they fall into his palm. "Any other paperwork to fill out?"

“Nope. Perk of the favor. That, and magic really takes the effort out of paperwork and signing things.”

He grins widely at that. "Then I believe that's that! Though I do still need a change of clothes or two. I was considering changing my style a little, actually."

“Oh?” She raises a brow. “Spill the tea, then, as they say.”

He rolls his eyes. "Nothing too different, of course. But I think I could go with just a vest for the time being. Put the coat on hold." He looks down at himself and pinches the ends of his suit jacket. "Been through so much, but I think it's a little too notable at the moment."

“By God, you’re actually going to get rid of it? What’s next, the Rapture finally happens?”

"I'm not _getting rid of it._ " One of his hands splays over his chest and he leans back in faux shock at the accusation. "It'll be on a hanger for later use."

“Darling, I haven’t seen you _not_ wear that thing since 1939. You were wearing it when I found you half-dead in the garbage and you’re wearing it even now.”

"I know, I know." Alastor straightens his bowtie, features softening at the reminder. He smoothes his hand over his jacket again. "Trust me, it's going to be... _very_ strange for me. More strange than you seeing it, surely!" He laughs.

“Will you be fine with people seeing “you know what?” She tilts her head, grin turning a bit mischievous.

"Ugh, I'll have to be." He rolls his eyes and waves a hand at her. "Who knows? Maybe it'll help me blend in somehow."

“Certainly might attract some eyes, that’s for sure.” She chuckles. “But not the kind that want to put a bullet in your head.”

"My goodness. Maybe I won't change after all. I can still mend this all."

She gives his shoulder a slight swat. “Oh no you don’t. You need to change up your look so you can hide better, remember? At least let me keep the damn jacket so I can try mending it.”

He shifts away from her but snickers all the same. "I can mend my own jacket, but thank you, Rosie, for the offer."

“Hmm.” She rolls her eyes. “Somehow I find myself doubtful considering I’ve never once seen you pick up a needle.”

"I can do plenty of things you've never seen me do." He roll his eyes right back and straightens, gesturing to the elevator they had come up in. "So. Shall we?"

“I suppose we shall. Remind me again where we’re meeting your little friend?” She straightens as well, turning to start walking toward the elevator.

"I told her to find me in the Emporium," he says, following. "I believe I mentioned the courts. Food courts."

“Ah, I see. Do you still hate sweets? One of the restaurants manages to make quite the lovely milkshake.”

"No, no, no." He shakes his head vigorously, smiling. "I haven't changed that much."

“Hmph. A pity. What made you hate them so much anyways? I can’t recall encountering anyone that hates sugar as much as you do.”

"I lived in New Orleans, dear. The amount of sugar I encountered in childhood alone was enough to tide me over for eons." He shakes his head at memories of powder strewn streets.

She hums slightly at that, tilting her head as they both step into the elevator. “Hmm, well, I’ll tell you one thing; you may hate sweets, but you sure know how to bake them.”

•••

Angel Dust couldn’t help but take a moment to look the house up and down a few times, eyes narrowing in his scrutiny. It looked like the place of the first attack so far; there was a massive bullet hole punched into the door, there was a spatter of blood on the front steps, and it was deathly quiet, the dust gathering on the wood making it look like no one’s touched it for days. But he had to admit to himself, privately, that a small, tiny shack of a house like this did _not_ look like the place a psychotic cannibal would live, which, he supposed, was the entire point. He lets out a sigh, not even bothering to address Rex for questions, before stepping on up to the porch. “Come on. We’re burning daylight.”

“Yeah, yeah...” Rex simply grumbles to himself before taking a glance at the sidewalk, noting the small trail of blood that fit the description. He points to it with a claw. “There’s blood over here, just so you know. From what I could get after that “Ed” guy stopped being a corpse, they had busted the fucker’s nose and dragged him to their car.”

"Oh, really?" Angel twists the doorknob and swings the door open. Shortly beyond the entrance, splatters and a few small pools of blood stained the ground. The kitchen opens up in front of them, a doorway to the side leading into a darker room and a doorway heading further back leading to a mostly empty space with a table in the middle. "Well. This house looks way too normal for a cannibal.”

“Hmmm...Yeah, you’re right. I don’t like it.” Rex peeks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “...I’ll check the back rooms, you check the kitchen?”

"Sure, sure, I'll take the spot where the creep eats his meals." He cringes and walks into the kitchen anyways, glancing over the small table and then at the cabinets. He was not all that enthused to figure out what was behind them.

Rex nods and walks past Angel, dipping past the wall and out of view. It takes a couple moments for him to work up the nerve to open said cabinets, but when he does, he can’t help but blink ever so slightly at the sight of ceramic bowls and glass cups. A quick search through drawers reveals regular silverware, along with basic kitchen supplies and tools; measuring cups, mixing bowls, cupcake racks, rolling pins, knives, scissors, etc.

"...Is everything normal in there too?" He glances over his shoulder at the door Rex had entered, and then carefully takes a silverware tray out of its drawer to check behind it. "This guy has everything you need for a kitchen, but nothing extra."

“Yeah, it’s just his bedroom. Nothing in here except the bed, the dresser, that type of shit....Jesus, does this guy just wear the same clothes over and over? He’s got a closet that’s full of empty coat hangers.”

"That's... really fuckin' weird, actually." Angel considers the state Alastor's clothes had been in. Nothing crazy for Hell, but if it was his only set? Pretty good condition for 1933. He turns to the fridge. "Okay. Okay. Fridge. Totally normal. It'll be... entirely normal stuff inside. Nothing creepy at all...." He carefully pulls the fridge door open.

Nothing. Not a single god damn thing. Angel’s jaw drops, and he frowns. He wasn’t exactly expecting hearts or organs or anything (maybe a little), but even if the man had regular food in there, or even things like fruit or vegetables, he would’ve expected any of that to still _be_ there, especially since the man got jumped and was dragged away. To have the entire fridge just completely wiped clean is…

"Ah. Okay. Weird." He slowly closes the fridge and then reaches out to open the freezer, less worried now. If the fridge is empty, chances are that the freezer is too. If anyone had stolen the food, then they'd have taken all of it and-

"Holy shit."

Angel's eyes quiver, taking in plastic boxes neatly packed on top of each other, each holding slabs or cut up cubes of strangely colored meat. Some of it looks almost normal, an off pinkish red, but the rest was almost... _purple._ Inhuman. Something oddly cylindrical with a sort of kink in the middle of it rests in the very back of the freezer, uncovered. He tentatively reaches in, feeling his stomach churn, and then quickly grabs the packs of meat and sets them on the table behind him. He turns back to the freezer.

" _Oh my fucking God._ " He brings a hand to his mouth, feeling his stomach roil. "Oh _God_. Rex? Fuck, I'm gonna puke."

There was the sound of loud footsteps, to which Rex appears around the corner with a knife, looking around wildly. “Yeah? What is it? What-“ He spots the open freezer door and his expression drops. “....What’s in there?”

"It's-" Angel turns away from the freezer and walks over to the sink. "I think it's an arm. Just. Look."

The color drains from Rex’s face, and he slowly walks over towards the freezer, peeking inside. A dark, purple arm is at the very back of the freezer, scaled, reptilian claws still curled in a defensive posture, half-stiff with rigor mortis, half frozen over from visible freezer burns. It was cut off just above the elbow, gristle and blood still coated around the edges, glistening chunks of white bone peeking out from the crimson flesh, twisted and broken, with jagged edges. The smell hits his nose, reeking of metal, and he feels his vision spin, hand coming up to clamp over his mouth as cold sweat drops down the back of his neck. His voice was hoarse, a thin whisper. “Oh. _Oh God._ I’m gonna, _gonna-_ ”

"He is _not_ a normal cannibal. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?" Pressure builds in his skull, like a headache that wouldn't go away, shortly followed by a sense of dizziness. He leans against the counter, taking shaky breaths. "Fucking Hell, he _eats_ demons? I can't - _holy shit._ "

There was the sound of something wet splattering against the floorboards, followed by Rex coughing, and his eyes are watery as he turns back to walk over to the sink, letting the water wash away the sickness from his claws. His expression was horrified, filled with pure dread, and his entire frame was shaking. “I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it. How..How is there an arm? How is there a fucking _arm?_ It-It should’ve grown back or wasted away or _something._ That’s what demon flesh _does._ It’s not supposed to...to just _stay._ ”

Angel shakes his head, making room for him and brushing a hand through his hair. "Maybe because it's frozen? God that's just... _Gah._ " He catches sight of the bins he had pulled out, and quickly looks away and rounds Rex to start pacing in some of the open space near the door. "Fucking eats demons."

“We gotta...We gotta report this to Valentino. _Right now._ The fucker is out there still doing his dirty work. Fucking eating demon flesh. God...” He cups some water in his hands and splashes it over his face. “I pray to god it isn’t moving when he eats it. I fucking pray with what little soul I got left he doesn’t eat the poor bastards _alive._ That they don’t _feel_ themselves getting eaten like some fucked up phantom pain bullshit when they do grow back. And if they don’t...I fucking hope they aren’t alive in there. In...whatever sick abyss _that_ is.” He shakily points to the bins.

"God." The thoughts were terrifying, and he hadn't quite formed them before Rex said it. He rubs his face and forces the images of squirming food out of his mind, pacing and pacing and pacing. Alice was with him, may still be with him. And he hadn't said anything. He should have at least mentioned the Butcher while he was there. Glass cracks under his foot and he startles, jumping a solid foot in the air and landing some distance away. "Oh my fucking - what the _fuck-_ " He clutches his chest and heaves in a breath.

Rex immediately whirls around with his knife in hand, wrist pulled back like he’s ready to throw it, eyes wild with fear, but then he pauses, seeing nothing there. He slowly looks down toward the ground, and blinks. “...What the...”

Angel takes a deep breath, mentally chastising himself for being so jumpy, both literally and not, and turns to see what he had stepped on. He frowns and walks toward a small circle of rose colored glass surrounded in thin metal, with beads trailing from one end. He kneels and picks it up by the beads. "It's a... monocle, I think?"

Rex slowly lowers the knife, and frowns for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah, he wears one of those. Saw it in the photographs Vox gave us. Must’ve been ripped off during the struggle.” 

"Yeah, right." He recalls the photo that had been shown to him and nods weakly. He stands and holds the glass in his hand. It was thick, probably prescription, but he had no clue where someone would go to see an eye doctor around here. A crack spiderwebs its way across the surface. "Let's just say it was broken when we found it."

“Right...” Rex glances back toward the freezer, still open, and his frame visibly shudders. “..Do...Do we bring the... _arm?_ ”

"I... uh...." Angel feels his face twist and he quickly shakes his head. "I think this is something we can tell Val to check himself. Or bring one of the tins. I ain't carryin' an arm, especially in public. Shit's fucked up on its own."

“Nah, he’s just as likely to get pissed if we _don’t_ bring it.” He winces, his hand drifting to his ear stump. “I don’t wanna risk that...Maybe we can...wrap it up? In newspapers or something? We can bring one of the tins too. Get as much evidence as we can without a camera.”

"Ah, geez." Angel runs a hand through his hair and tucks the monocle in his pocket. "Yeah. Sure. Newspaper. I don't know if newspaper is that big. Pillow case? Or a blanket?"

Rex slowly nods after a moment and turns to walk back toward the bedroom. “Yeah, yeah, one second.” There was a small pause of relative silence before he walks back in with an empty pillow case, stepping toward the freezer with the same hesitation as someone slowly tiptoeing towards an angry dog. He reaches in with his bare hand, pauses, then quickly reaches in with the pillow case _over_ his hand, slowly dragging the arm out of it’s confines into sight, the light of the outside causing even more blood to be revealed lining the surface of the arm’s skin. He shudders, quickly letting it slip into the pillow case, holding it like a bag, his ear flat against his skull. “I swear if this thing starts to move, I’m gonna faint.”

"I ain't catchin' ya." Angel glances between the case and the bat, swallowing roughly and trying to avoid the nausea threatening to crawl up his throat.

“Appreciate the honesty.” He shudders, looking around one more time before moving to grab one of the tins, the one that contained meat that looked to be _green,_ and he shivers. “What I wouldn’t give to have a bottle of holy water right now just so I can _burn_ this whole fucking hellhouse.” He goes quiet for a second, staring at the rest of the tins. “What bothers me is the fact that it’s just...sitting there. Demon flesh doesn’t just sit. It isn’t supposed to. So either...Either it’s... _still alive_ in there or...I don’t even know.”

"Well, uh... I dunno if it's me bein' a spider, but I've lost an arm or two before." He crosses his arms over his chest. "I died and grew back the arms, but the arms that fell off, uh... didn't grow anything. You know?"

“...Did you feel anything from those arms that got ripped off?”

"No. I, uh... I don't think so?" He shifts, swallowing roughly. "It was a while ago, and I was pretty freaked out, but I kicked 'em and they didn't do anything. I didn't feel them bein' kicked, just the, uh, kicking part."

“Ok...Ok.” He nods after a moment, before shaking his head, blinking once or twice. “Sorry, I...I’m feeling really rattled right now. I mean...All this meat had to come from somewhere...” Something in his expression clicks, and he freezes, his eyes widening with pure dread. “...Angel? You know a lot about this guy, right? When he was human?”

"Uh. Yeah, sure. News hit New York and all. People freaked out. Why?" Something about the tenseness in Rex's expression made his blood run cold.

“....Where exactly were the bodies found?”

"They were found in the..." Blood drains from his face and he glances side to side. "Found in..." He looks at the ground, at the floorboards beneath him. "The basement."

There was silence. Rex carefully walks back over to the counter and sets both the pillowcase and the tin down. He steps back, takes a deep breath, hands folded together. “...If he’s fucking keeping demons captive in his basement and killing them over and over to rip the meat off their corpses...” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do. That’s my limit.”

"Oh _God._ " He doesn't want to be in this house anymore. He doesn't want to look for this insane demon, and he definitely doesn't want to look at his murder dungeon basement. He had work tomorrow. He had work all week. And just the thought of what this demon _could_ be doing was already starting to haunt him.

Rex throws up his hands. “Well, what the fuck should we do?! Do we go back to Valentino now? Or do we try and find this fucker’s basement and see if he’s keeping these poor bastards locked up?”

"I'm not saying you're wrong! I just - geh - I - we're all demons down here but that's just fucked up. And if he's - if _he's_ eating demons, then what if there's others, huh? And if there is a basement full o' demons bein' used as cattle-" He shakes his head and rubs his face. "I've been down here since '47 and I ain't ever been shocked by anythin' anyone has done before."

“I know! That’s why I’m freaking out!” He sighs, staring to pace himself. “I don’t get it either; if he’s a cannibal and he likes eating people, then why fucking eat the meat of demons when cannibalism is fucking free game down here? There are restaurants, fast food joints, _grocery stores_ , all of them having fucking human meat! So why this? Why _demons?_ ”

"I mean, why do cannibals eat humans in the first place? Usually you hear about people getting fucked up and resorting to it out of starvation, but just - _doing it because?_ I - I can't even begin to understand that. And this is - worse? Somehow?"

“It’s fucking worse because demons aren’t supposed to stay dead! Because demon flesh isn’t meant to get _eaten_!”

"Human flesh isn't either! It's just - normal down here!" Angel claps his hands together and takes a deep breath. "No. Okay. It's all fucked up. We're all fucked up. It's Hell. Whatever. Let's just look for that basement and get back to Val and Vox."

“Right..Right...Fuck..” Rex slides his hands down his face, nodding, before letting them drop. “Uh...Maybe there’s a hidden door or something somewhere? Or a back entrance into the basement?”

"Yeah. I'll check around outside." He rubs his face again. "Christ. Let's hope we don't find anything."

“For once, I agree.” Rex sighs and moves around the corner again, out of sight.

The two search the ground for almost an hour straight. They find nothing. No secret entrance. No outside opening. No attic. No staircase. Just a single storied building with solid floors, average walls, and wooden doors. There are no pleas from suspected victims. No nearby shed to act as a prison. No door kept shut with an absent key. Just an average house with average belongings and one unusual refrigerator. It left the both of them baffled, beyond confused, for more reasons than one, even as they finally gave up the search and began to make their way back towards Valentino’s grounds, Rex holding the frozen arm in the pillow case while Angel held as many tins as he could carry. They said nothing to each other, their eyes kept straight, kept forward, not wanting to look down at what was in their hands, nor look back toward the nightmare of a house that they had just came from. Angel spared a glance toward Rex, a small one, just out of the corner of his eye, then looked away. There was a question he wanted to ask, so damn badly, but knew there wasn’t any way that they could find out the answer. But it’s a question that needed to be asked, because of what it could mean.

If Alastor wasn’t kidnapping demons and slaughtering them like cattle, then where was he getting the meat?

•••

"You know, it is rather refreshing changing your look after quite a few decades." Alastor sits across from Rosie at a small table in the central food court, sipping idly at a cup of black coffee and wearing a maroon vest and bright red undershirt he hadn't owned an hour ago. A plastic bag sits on the floor beside his chair, holding his old clothes and a second vest and undershirt, both a midtone grey, to add variety, per Rosie's request. He feels both underdressed and entirely comfortable at the same time, and he isn't entirely sure what to make of the feeling, but he doesn't necessarily feel _self conscious,_ so he considers the whole ordeal a success. For the moment, at least. "I hadn't noticed that my shoulders grew a size, but I can really feel the difference. Definitely not as tense anymore."

“I honestly don’t how how you kept wearing that thing for 30 years. You honestly look better without it.” Rosie herself was sipping at a chocolate milkshake, smirking as she does so.

He shakes his head. "What can I say? I appreciate the aesthetic." He shifts his legs around, crossing one over the other under the table. "You know, I used to wear things similar to this as a human. Suspenders too."

“ _Suspenders?_ ” She raises a brow, shaking her head and chuckling to herself. “Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you used to tap dance for money on the city streets.”

"Hah! No, I never learned to tap dance." He chuckles at the thought. "I used to put on little performances at speakeasies, though. Piano, saxophone, dancing. A little singing. I've probably told you about it before."

“Oh, yes, indeed. Shared plenty of stories of your times down in the bars and secret little dance clubs in the basements. Fun times, those were, I imagine?”

"Oh, very. Entire nights spent dancing and chatting with bands and neighbors and laughing about the Prohibition." His eyes close and he hums. "Good times, good times."

“Yes. It was fun around those times, from what I can remember. Refreshing after the horrible fatigue of the war. Everything just seemed to bounce back, become so much more lively.” She takes another sip of her milkshake. “What was the first jazz song you ever heard?”

"My first?" His eyes blink open and he hums, looking aside in thought. "Hmm... It was either... 'Chinatown, My Chinatown' or 'Bill Bailey.'" He squints. "I was... eight at the time, so it must've been 'Bill Bailey.'"

“Ooh, lovely, those ones.” She taps a finger in thought. “I can’t quite remember what my first one was, I’ve listened to so many. I used to collect records like they were candy. Begged my mom and pop for allowance so I could run down to the general store and get the biggest hits.”

"I _technically_ wasn't allowed to own any, but my aunts and uncles helped smuggle some while my father wasn't looking." He grins at the memory. "He could never figure out how I knew all the words to the songs."

“Oh?” She tilts her head at that. “Why didn’t your father let you have records?”

"He was the stereotypical Christian man who thought the Devil found its way into the heart through song." He shakes his head and sips his coffee. "So I didn't really own a record until I was... hmm... twenty."

“Oh. I am quite sorry to hear that. Sounds like an utter bafoon if you ask me.” She shakes her head in disappointment. “Glad to know you managed to sneak your way around his silly rules, though.”

"Oh, please. I could do anything outside the house, and my mother always helped me. We were always mutinying, if you catch my meaning." He smirks and the old mischief fills his eyes again. "I think I got into most of the bars before I turned thirteen."

“Really?” She blinks at that, before she smirks. “Sounds like quite the rebellious childhood.”

"And I was quite the rebellious child." He tilts his head with perhaps even more mischief in his eyes, and then blinks and straightens his back, looking over her shoulder. "Ah! Nifty!" He raises a hand and waves.

“Hmm?” Rosie turns around in her seat to see where he had spotted his little friend, only to see a small figure in a pink dress walking towards them, her arms folded around her chest, a smile across her face. Rosie can’t help but grin, chuckling to herself as she raises a hand to her lips. “Oh my God, she’s so small.”

The moment Nifty gets within earshot, she goes to lift an arm to wave as well, only to pause before proceeding to wave with the arm opposite. “I’m back! Sorry it took so long! It was a bit of a walk.” Her eye takes a moment to glance toward Alastor, looking him up and down, her brow raising. “You changed your look?”

"Oh, yes!" He puffs his chest slightly and brings his thumbs under the shoulders of his vest. "Figured I could do without the jacket for a bit, at least while I get it into a better condition."

"Oh, I see." She offers a small smile. "I know a thing or two about sewing, so if you need any help...."

"Of course, my dear." He nods, though he knows he'll more than likely decline the offer later.

She finally turns her gaze to Rosie, her smile growing more nervous. "And, um, you must be the Overlord, um, Rosie. Or is it just Rosie? Sorry, I've - I've never met an Overlord before. Heheh." She clasps her hands together, eye darting side to side, and then offers a hand out to her. "I'm - Nifty. Pleasure to meet you."

Rosie can’t help but chuckle as she extends a hand down to give the other a shake. “You can just call me Rosie, sweetpea, no worries.” She pulls her hand back. “So you’re the little doctor Al’s been telling me about. I have to thank you for saving his life and all that; God only knows he won’t accept the help unless you tie him up and make him.” She shoots Alastor a pointed look, before looking back towards Nifty. “Nifty, huh? How do you spell that, doll? I’ve heard some people spell it with two f’s and some with just one.”

"Um." She blinks a few times, not having considered it. "Let's say... two, to make things a bit different."

"Niffty with two f's," Alastor murmurs. He nods after a moment and then waves to an empty seat. "Have a seat, dear. You definitely look a little tired."

"Oh, uh, thanks." Niffty moves over to the seat and climbs into it, tucking her legs under her to give her some extra height. "Sorry, I think it's just-" She waves her hands and giggles a little. "There's a lot going on and everything. It's a beautiful place." She directs this to Rosie.

“Ohoho, thank you, Niffty, dear. That’s very kind of you.” She tilts her head slightly, leaning her chin on her palm. “So, tell me, what was it like having Al here as a patient? I hope he wasn’t too much of a handful.”

"Well, ah, he's a bit picky about things, but that's nothing new for me." She waves a hand.

"I'm not picky."

"The first meal I made for you, you said I didn't put enough salt in. And you apparently don't like fast food."

"I have a refined palette. That's different."

Niffty gives him a flat look, then turns to look at Rosie before waving at the man. "See what I mean?"

“Yes, yes, I understand entirely.” She leans forward a touch, whispering, a hand up toward her mouth conspiratorially. “He doesn’t even like sweet things like chocolate or candy.”

"I know!" Niffty leans toward Rosie in turn, gesticulating with a hand. "I tried getting him a milkshake since he wasn't drinking enough and he just _refused._ "

"Oh my." Alastor rolls his eyes, sipping at his coffee and leaning back to observe the conversation.

“Oh, the audacity. It’s practically a sin against nature to refuse a perfectly good milkshake. No _wonder_ he ended up down here.”

Niffty giggles, glancing between the two and bringing a hand to her mouth at the half-amused glare Alastor sent Rosie. "Now that I think of it, you didn't touch your soda the other day either."

"Bubbly water with _syrup_." He shakes his head vigorously. "No, I don't think so. Not for me."

“Oh come _on_ , now, Al! Soda? You’re being that dreadfully picky over _soda_?” Rosie raises a brow. “You’re making my eyes roll out of their sockets so hard that they’re already gone!”

"Pff-" Niffty clamps both her hands tightly to her face as she snorts.

Alastor glances between them. "I simply don't like the stuff." His eye catches on Niffty's hands as she lowers them from her face, one thumb rubbing the other wrist. He looks back to Rosie and points at her. "At least _I_ won't fall head first into the corporate scheme of sugar based dopamine."

“Corp-Oh _please._ Like I _ever_ would fall for something as idiotic as that. Al, people will just keep making sweets and sweet things because they like the sugar! Because they like chocolate! Just because you’re some freak with mutated tastebuds doesn’t mean the candy-making machines are out to get you.” She takes a sip of her milkshake, as if to prove her point.

"I'm not saying they're out to get _me,_ " he says, "but rather that putting sugar in things is an easy way of getting money out of other people's pockets. I'll be the one taking money before I'm the one eating the stuff."

" _Can_ you bake?" Niffty tilts her head at him. "I know you can cook, but baking's a whole other thing."

“And thus the hypocrisy of the great Alastor is exposed.” Rosie’s smirk becomes a full on grin. “Want to tell her, or should I, darling?”

"All I'll say is that anyone who comes out of New Orleans who _can't_ bake obviously wasn't well liked in the community." He holds his hands up. "If you want to add to that, go ahead."

“To answer your question, Niffty, sweetheart, yes, yes he can bake. And let me tell you something, he bakes the best god damn sweets I ever had in my life. He once offered to make an entire platter of these sugary things, kind of like a doughnut but without the hole, for a party I was planning to celebrate with my Emporium staff.” She sips her milkshake. “One bite was all it took and next thing I know, everyone was knocking each other over to get their hands on them. Pretty sure someone tossed my couch out the window.”

"Ah, yes, my beignets." He nods sagely. "Doughnuts without holes."

"You know what I meant."

"Wow." Niffty blinks at him. "You’re just full of surprises."

“Indeed he is.” She sips again at her milkshake before speaking again. “You know what else is a surprise? He managed to actually buy you a house. Well, buy you _both_ a house. I wouldn’t hand it over unless he agreed to live in it too.”

"Both of us?" Niffty blinks and rubs her wrist again. "Oh, wow. I, uh... Won't the neighbors talk?"

"My thoughts exactly." Alastor gives Rosie a pointed look.

"Well, I guess it is kinda... Hell. People wouldn't care much, right?" She tilts her head. "I never really thought of that. People wouldn't care about housing down here. Not as much at least. That's weird."

“Oh, please.” Rosie rolls her eyes again. “We’re all dead, it’s not like gossip will make any of us any less dead. Besides, I’m sure _you_ won’t exactly be keen on chit-chatting with any of the neighbors anyway, not if you want to get back to your radio project.” She points a finger at Alastor.

"I still leave my house." He somehow manages to pout without losing his smile. "And I can't avoid guests. They're inevitable. Besides, being a homebody _attracts_ attention, which is something I try to avoid."

“Then just make it clear that nothing is happening. _Simple._ ” She groans and rolls her eyes again. “I don’t get why it’s such a big deal, Al.”

"I haven't lived in the same house as another living being for over forty years. It's simply a little... daunting." He leans back in his chair and picks at his nails.

"Oh, I get it." Niffty grins at him, leaning on the table, then wincing slightly and pulling her arms back. "You're, uh, just nervous, aren't you? You know, that actually explains why you're so weird about telling me things. If you're so used to being distanced with people physically, then it's no wonder you're distanced in other ways too."

Alastor stares at her, expression frozen with his brows raised and eyes wide. "Are you psychoanalyzing me?"

Rosie can’t help but snort a bit, a hand clasping to her mouth. “Pfft! Oh-Oh dear! Ohohoho!” Her head tilts back as she laughs, chortling to herself. “Oh, oh, I like this gal a lot!”

Niffty hunches her shoulders inward slightly, flushing, though a smile spreads across her face. “Sorry. Four years of nursing and psych classes do that to a person.”

Alastor shakes his head, expression finally breaking into amusement. “I don’t think anyone has ever _tried_ to psychoanalyze me before.”

“How does it feel, darling?” Rosie, still snickering, raises a brow, smirking.

“Very strange.” He laughs confusedly.

“Sorry! Sorry.” She waves a hand quickly. “I’ll try and keep all that to a minimum, I promise.”

“It’s not a _bad_ strange, I suppose.” He cocks a brow. “I merely wasn’t expecting it.”

“Of course, no harm done.” Rosie finally drains the last of her milkshake before finally setting the glass down, flashing a grin. “Well then, I suppose the last thing to do is to show you two to the house. Unless you feel like you can make it there on your own?”

“Oh, I’d hate to impose on you,” Niffty says quickly. “We’ve probably taken enough of your time today as is.”

“Unless you want to get out of the Emporium for any reason?” Alastor tilts his head and sips at his cup of coffee.

“Hmmm..” Rosie tilts her own head in response, and she seems to think about it for a moment. “...No, I think it’s best if I stay here. Make sure _Stolas_ doesn’t try to squirm his way back in here.” She rolls her eyes at that, grimacing.

“Eugh.” Alastor suppresses a shudder and downs the rest of his coffee. “If I never see that bird ever again, I’d consider my afterlife Heaven.”

Niffty glances between them. “Who’s Stoals?”

“Someone you stay away from, hun.” She reaches over and gives Niffty a pat on the head. “I dunno if he swings both ways, but I’d rather not risk it if I were you.”

“Swings both...” Her face turns bright red. “Oh. Yeah. Um. I’ll make sure I stay away from him.”

“Believe you me, there will be consequences if he ever even lays eyes on you, my dear.” Alastor stands and picks up his bags from the floor. “Well, it’s been wonderful seeing you again, Rosie. I’ll try and be less of a stranger this time ‘round.”

“You better, considering you’re living in one of my houses.” She flashes a grin. “Do try to stop by when you can.” Her gaze flicks to Niffty, and she winks at her. “And you make sure he doesn’t keep getting plugged full of bullets. I’m counting on you to keep him safe, Niffty, doll; he’s like a headless chicken without some women around to keep him from getting it cut off.”

She stifles another chuckle and hops off her chair. “I’ll do my best, certainly.”

“I’m fully capable of looking after myself, thank you very much,” Alastor scoffs.

“Says the same man who got a shotgun bullet lodged in his stomach!” She calls out after him as they walk away, giving a wave before she simply vanishes from sight with a flash of flame.

Alastor waves a hand in the air above his head as she disappears. “I’ll never hear the end of that one, I’m sure.”

“She’s...a lot less scary than I thought she’d be.” Niffty’s smile was receding a touch as she glances back at the space where Rosie was. “I mean, I knew she wouldn’t be _scary,_ but, you know...demons.”

“And an Overlord at that.” He grins softly at her, and notes her fading smile but says nothing of it. For now. “Rosie’s always been rather kind for an Overlord. She definitely has a scary side, but in everyday business?” He shrugs.

“Yeah, that’s nice to know. This place certainly is pretty to look at. And _really_ big.” She cranes her head up to look at the ceiling, spotting a large piece of stained glass, before directing her gaze back at him. “So...You really got a house?”

“With a deluxe kitchen to boot.” He pulls the keys out and holds them for her to see, then starts working one set off the chain. “I’m starting to think she wants me to bring her more beignets.”

“What are beignets?” She tilts her head at that. “That sounds French. Is it French?”

“In origin, at the very least. They’re rather popular in New Orleans. Essentially, deep fried pastry, maybe some jam or fruit or meat to go along with it, topped with powdered sugar. Usually it’s just powdered sugar.”

“Ooh!” Her smile grows right back. “You gotta show me how to make those. Those sound delicious!” Her fists clench with excitement, only for one fist to immediately unclench and lower to her side, her grin disrupted by a small grimace. 

“Of course.” His brows knot together as he catches the wince, not the first of the evening. “Are you alright, dear? You look a little pained.”

“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine.” She attempts to grin again, waving a hand in dismissal. “I think I’m just a bit tired from walking around so much.”

“Okay. If you’re certain.” The worry stays on his face. “I could carry you if that’d be easier.”

“No, no, it’s ok, I’m good.” She gives a thumbs up, before reaching up to tug on his hand, starting to walk a bit faster. “Come on, I wanna see what kind of house you got.”

Alastor blinks, considering pulling his hand out of hers for a moment, before deciding to go along with the charade. He lets his smile grow back in its entirety, and gestures widely with his free hand, bag swinging haphazardly, as he describes the amount of space they will have to share.

•••

“ _This_ is the house?!” Niffty couldn’t help but let her jaw drop as she stared up at the large building in front of them, at least 2 floors in height, possibly even 3, the dark blue windows, combined with the solid black door, giving an almost imposing look, starkly contrasting that of the bright white walls. They were both currently standing in front of it on the sidewalk, the ring of keys Alastor clutched in his fist displaying the number on a thin strip of leather: 52. “It’s _huge_! How much did this even _cost_ you?!”

Alastor’s grin stretches from cheek to cheek, hidden slightly by the fringes of his hair, and he shakes his head. “One favor. And it definitely looked smaller from further away.” He twirls the keys around his finger and walks down the pathway to the front door. “I wonder what it looks like inside.”

“A favor?” She’s quick to follow him, looking up toward him with a look of confusion that momentarily crosses into worry, and a frown quickly takes its place. “W-Wait, what do you mean by favor? Did you make a _deal_ with her?”

“Oh, no.” He chuckles at the idea and shakes his head. “It’s her personal system of money. You can pay with cash at any of the stores, but if you buy enough or help her in some way, she’ll offer you favor coins with her face on them. That way, you can hand her a _favor_ in return for practically anything.” He slots the key into the door and unlocks it, pushing it open.

Niffty visibly loses some of the tension in her shoulders as she hears that explanation, her eye fluttering shut for a moment. “Oh, thank God...I got scared for a second.” She slowly glances down at one of her hands for a moment, but the clicking of the door unlocking gets her to look up, and her eye widens as soon as she sees it creak open. “Oh my god.”

Solid oak floorboards, polished to perfection, the walls painted a dark navy blue, decorated with small shelves topped off with unlit candles and picture frames that displayed many different works of art (usually ones of Lucifer), and a small chandelier dangling from the ceiling, decorated with large looping lines of beads and gemstones. Two bookshelves, currently empty, the smaller one pushed into a corner, while the second, larger one merely faced towards the window. The window’s inner doors were open, and bright white curtains dangled over them, providing potential cover from the outside. A large maroon couch, easily enough to fit three people at once, is pressed to the back of the room, and in front of it is a solid black coffee table, with nothing currently on it. Just beyond said couch is an opening in the wall that supposedly leads into the kitchen.

“Rosie truly knows how to spoil her customers.” Alastor steps inside, holding the door open for her, and softly closes it behind them. His heels click satisfyingly on the wooden floor, and for a moment he merely steps back and forth in a few spots to hear the sound. “She said there’s an electric stove in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve ever really used one before. How about you?”

“No, I don’t think I have.” Niffty finds herself walking toward the couch, pressing on it with her hand for a moment, only to quickly pull her hand back, simply moving to sit on it instead, finding that the cushions were remarkably soft, and she feels herself grin. “Wow, this feels nice.”

He follows her, passing around the coffee table, and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. He sinks ever so slightly and lets out a soft sigh, feeling his muscles thanking him after a day spent walking and sitting in uncomfortable chairs. “This is very nice.” His eyes peer at her. “Is there something bothering your hand, dear? I’ve been noticing you fidget with it here and there.”

“My hand?” She flexes her right hand, wiggling her fingers, before dropping it. She shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Your other hand, dear.” Alastor turns his face more fully toward her.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, lifting it up as well, turning her palm this way and that. “It’s fine.”

His brows furrow again, and he stares at her for a long moment. They didn’t really know each other very well, so it wasn’t exactly his place to ask questions. But at the same time.... “Is it your arms, then?”

“No. They’re both fine.” She lowers her arm and moves to push herself up against the couch cushions, only for her teeth to visibly clench, pulling her left hand away, her right hand coming up to cup it. She doesn’t meet Alastor’s eyes.

“...Did someone hurt you?” He shifts upright slowly, as if not wanting to startle her with sudden movements. 

She’s silent. She doesn’t look at him.

“...Can I see it?” His lips press together in concern, and he brings his hands to his lap. “I know you’re the doctor and all, but I can assure you I know how to apply bandages.”

She lets out a scoff, shaking her head, slowly. “The last thing I need is a bandage.”

“Then how can I help?”

“...You can’t.” She lets out a sigh, staring down at her hand. “...I did something, Al. Something you told me not to do. And I did it because I wanted to help you. To help others like you.”

Alastor stares for a long moment, not entirely sure what she meant, but feeling a weight fill his stomach all the same. He twists his body to face her, bringing one leg onto the couch. “Okay. What exactly... happened? Are you alright?”

She’s quiet again for a moment, her eye shifting around silently. Finally, she just holds her hand out towards him, palm outstretched. “I’ll just stick it you straight, Al. I...” She hesitates, her eye clenching shut. “I made a deal.” 

Within an instant, the skin of her wrist, shiny and black, had changed into something else. Something thicker, tougher, that didn’t quite look right upon her skin, and Alastor soon realized that it was because it _wasn’t_ her skin. It was a creature, small, thick, a jet-black hue, coiled tightly around the flesh of her arm, it’s tail resting against her elbow, bound so tight that it almost looked to be a painting, or a tattoo; the only reason he could even see it was because of the way it’s body grew tense, as if it was aware of how it was suddenly seen, letting out a low, whistling hiss that seemed to make Niffty’s fingers quiver. It’s head was resting against the very edge of her wrist, just where the muscles of the palm curves to connect with the rest of the body, unmoving, unwavering, an eyeball slowly opening up on the top of it’s head, staring up at him with a gaze that could only be described as idle hostility, pupil a thin slit, sclera a sickening fuchsia.

“Ah.” Alastor doesn’t mean to make the noise, and he swallows as soon as he hears it. His hands had been moving to take her hand, but stop still halfway to her upon seeing the snake on - in? - her skin. He locks eyes with it, notes how the pupil contracts and follows him, and can’t suppress a shudder that goes down his spine. He slowly brings his eyes back up to Niffty’s. “Doll, this isn’t... this isn’t just a deal you have here.”

“No, no, it is. Just not the kind I was expecting.” She sighs, head tilting back, her expression layered with frustration, with confusion, with emotions he can’t quite catch a glimpse of. “I can’t tell you the conditions of the deal...I _can_ tell you that it needs to be in my arm so that he can watch me....And I can tell you that if I tell you anything about the deal or his name or if I try to go against him, the venom floods my body and I die.” She glances towards him at that. “And it’s not the kind that you can just dust off either.”

He freezes for a moment, then opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “Do you mean to say you would _die_ if it...” The snake moves slightly and his eyes dart back to it. “...if it decided to bite you? That you wouldn’t regenerate afterwards? Or normal dying for a demon?”

“No, no, it’s _already_ biting me.” She grows a sarcastic grin, flexing her wrist, letting him see that there was a visible smudge of blood, just underneath the snake’s snout, just before she hisses through her teeth and lets her wrist go limp. “ _That_ is why my wrist has been hurting. The teeth are already stuck in there, and once they go in, they don’t come out. As for the venom...” She frowns, softly. “I..I don’t know, is the thing. I don’t know what it does. All he said was ‘It’s very painful, it’s very quick, and it was made to last.’”

“I... I see.” He swallows, then tentatively moves his hands closer to hers. “I’m not going to do anything. I just want a closer look. Alright?” He can’t tell if he’s talking to Niffty or the snake.

She nods softly, eye closing. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Alastor gently takes her hand, one of his own hovering under her wrist and the other smoothing her fingers down. The snake’s coils shift, its eye glaring at him, and he pauses, half leaning forward to inspect it. “I... can’t feel any magic coming from it, which means whoever did this knows what they’re doing.” It looks familiar, though, is what he wants to say but doesn’t. The piercing darkness of its body, the bright color of its eye. Somewhere in his chest, he feels something intangible throb and send mild sparks across his skin. One of his eyes twitch in irritation. “Can you tell me if it was an Overlord?”

She pauses for a moment. “...Yeah. He was.” The snake doesn’t move.

“Strange magic. Snake. Overlord.” He exhales slowly. “Was it Sir Pentious?”

She’s silent for a moment, eye opening. “..I dunno if I can confirm that, but I’m pretty sure you know what the answer is.” The snake’s tail curls a bit tighter over her arm but it doesn’t make any obvious movements.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t have to say anything then.” He presses his lips together tightly. “Now... This might sound odd, but I think... if I’m looking at this correctly...” He meets her gaze. “It may be possible to transfer the deal.”

“...What?” She blinks, moving to turn towards him, her eye widening. “What do you mean by transfer the deal?”

“Well, _theoretically,_ it’s possible for any deal to be moved from one person to another,” he says slowly, “but it usually requires the person _behind_ the deal to confirm it. It’s like handing someone else your papers.” He gives the snake another look. “If I’m right in my assumption, then the snake is acting as the holder of the deal, or some form of it. You said he can watch you from it?”

“...Y..Yeah?” She stares, her expression starting to shift from confusion into something else. “W-Wait, what are you...” Her expression shifts again, becoming foggy, dazed, not entirely there, and her eye starts to slip shut. “W-...What...” 

Without warning, she suddenly falls over onto the cushions, collapsing like a sack of potatoes. The snake’s eye slips shut.

Alastor blinks, sharp jolts of static leaking from his lips, and belatedly moves a hand to her throat, checking for a pulse. “...Niffty?” A vein throbs under his finger. He wonders, idly, barely in his own body, how long she’d stay that way. If the poison had... if the snake had reacted to something he had _said...._

There was silence, complete and utter silence. Niffty was completely limp, completely unmoving, her pulse still thumping, her chest still breathing, but other than that, nothing at all. Then, slowly, her eye cracks open, and it was different than it was before. It was bright red, sickeningly bright, lacking a pupil, and what little magic he could sense dwelling within her body was now almost entirely gone, snuffed out by something else, something _new._ Niffty’s body slowly sits up, slowly moves to slip off the couch, and after a moment of looking around the room, finally turns to face Alastor, a grin growing on her lips. A voice completely different to Niffty’s own is heard when her mouth opens to speak. 

_“I can do much more than jusssst watch.”_

Ice floods his body and it takes every ounce of self control for him to keep from grabbing Niffty’s body and shaking the man possessing her. This is possession, isn’t it? Had the symptoms, at least, as far as he knows. He stays still longer than he means too, stays locked in a position of deciphering what was going on, and, more importantly _how._ This kind of magic... Possession wasn’t as common as most media made it out to be, but demon who were capable of it were typically well known and avoided. To think Sir Pentious could have avoided the knowledge leaking to the public....

He swallows, unsure what to say or do.

Niffty’s brow raises, and that grin drops into a more cocky smirk, head moving to glance around the room once more. _“Hmm. I know the little church bell said she would be getting a new house, but I didn’t quite think it would be so soon. And the location...One of Rosie’s, isn’t it?”_ Her head turns back to face him, and her sightless eye flicks up and down. _“So, you’re the man she’s been taking care of, I’m presuming? Nora filled me in on sssome of the details after the girl left, and I have to admit...You’re not quite what I was expecting...”_

“...I’m not exactly what most people expect.” He says the words slowly, like he was somehow tiptoeing around a land mine only navigable by perfect sentences.

 _“I supposssse not, no.”_ Niffty’s body jumps up on top of the coffee table so that they’re on more of an eye-to-eye level, tilting her head. _“Now, you said something about transferring the deal, yes? I must admit, that’s not something I hear quite often. But I’m afraid my deals aren’t exactly the same as most. Mine are much more...unique, as I’m sure you’re aware already.”_

“Yes, I....” His gaze flicks to Niffty’s wrist. “It’s definitely not something I see very often. But I think you should have a little more control over the transfer, given the, er.... snake.”

 _“Indeed, I do. But there’s another catch to my deals. More specifically, the actual bargaining aspect of it all.”_ Niffty’s body turns away, hopping back down from the coffee table to start pacing back and forth across the floor. “ _See, the little gal came to me in search for a deal. She wanted to find a way to protect you, to keep Vox and Valentino from hunting you down and mounting your head on a pike. So, she came to me, in hopes that I would be able to aid her. In exchange, she accepted the snake marking, and in doing so, accepted that she is now obligated to work for me. A demon with the knowledge to heal the wounded is very valuable, I’m sure you’re aware, and Nora has given me word that the gal was quite eager to give her asssssistance in her own research, which could allow for great ssssstrides later down the line.”_ Her body finally stops pacing and turns to face Alastor again, hands behind her back. _“So what can you give me?”_

“I...” He watches Niffty’s body, watches Sir Pentious watch him. How long had it been since someone had asked him for his portfolio again? He takes a small breath and forces himself to relax. Just another matter of business. Just another mind to trade information with. His eyes close, and as he exhales, they open, and his smile returns in full force. “There are many things I can do. Half of my day job is finding information on certain people in Hell and disseminating it in precise manners so as to weaken their credibility, security, and so on. I have the standard fire magic, enhanced senses, claws.” He holds his hand out and lets his nails jut out into what almost constituted another knuckle of pure, sharpened talons. “I dabble in some other forms of magic as well. You might recognize the term voodoo? And I have military experience. The Great War. Give me a rifle and I can kill a man. Give me a scope and I’ll clear a whole room.”

There was silence for a moment, and Niffty’s eye narrows considerably. “ _Hmm...All demons down here claim they can kill a man. How do I know that you_ will _? How do I know you’ll cut a man’s throat or sssslit a man’s belly once I give the word? I take recruitment quite sssseriously, and I do not take kindly to the squeamish, the cowards, the yellow-bellied. Now, answer me, my strange fellow. How do I know that you will slaughter without mercy?_ ”

“Hmm.” The words only make his smile grow, and he has to remind himself he’s dealing with an Overlord and should act as such. A few jokes come to mind, but he tosses them aside rather quickly. “Can she hear me right now? Or is it only you?”

Pentious doesn’t answer for a moment, Niffty’s eye narrowing even more. _“...It is only me who is aware as of right now.”_

“Good!” Alastor leans forward, eyes narrowing and lips curling to match Pentious’ gaze. “Because this is something I don’t let most people know.” He tilts his head, seeing Niffty’s face soften for half a second with curiosity before hardening back into skepticism. “On Earth, I was a serial killer.”

Silence for a moment. Pentious’s voice comes out soft, dripping with caution, suspicion. _“...Oh? Pleassse, do tell more.”_

Good. Hooked. Like always. “Hm. I believe my first true _murder_ outside of war was my father. Horrible man. Had it coming to him.” He slowly leans back, waving a hand like he was simply retelling an old story. In a lot of ways, he was. “After that, people around town. People I knew, people I didn’t know, tourists, foreigners. People ‘went missing’ and their bodies were never found - for years. Let’s see. If it was ‘24... No! ‘23. Fall of ‘23. The leaves were changing, right.” He considers it for a moment, then recalls himself and looks back to Pentious. “Ten years, give or take a few months. I was killing people for a full decade without anyone knowing. Took the town about four or five years to realize any of the disappearances were connected. No one ever suspected me, and the only reason anyone ever found the bodies was because I died prematurely.” He shrugs, closing his eyes as if to say _what a shame_ or something to that effect. “As for methods? Well. I had quite a few, but they were all clean. No drugs. No stalking. Some I even invited to spar for their lives, when I got bored with just killing them.” His eyes open again, hooded, crimson lakes that glow dangerously. “It’s fun watching someone choke on their own blood the first few dozen times, but it gets old all the same. And of course that only happened once I got bored of simply shooting them.”

Pentious is silent for a few moments more, seeming to process all of this, and one hand drifts up to rest on Niffty’s chin. “ _I sssee...A professional killer, offering his sssskills and expertise. Fascinating.”_ A grin starts to curl over Niffty’s face, one that carried too much menace to belong there. “ _And you’ll accept the conditions of working for me? I’ll warn you jusssst this once; it’s not something that can be broken. It’s a cold, concrete law, sssset in stone. Once you work for me, you can never esssscape.”_

Alastor considers backing out. Of course he does. He doesn’t gain much for himself in this, except perhaps the protection Niffty had already vied for and an extra job to fill the time between his radio station and his meals. On the other hand, Niffty... two years in Hell and stuck working for an Overlord she didn’t have proper homework on? When she wanted to help people in Hell, and likely wouldn’t stop wanting to help people for at least another decade? A recipe for disaster.

“Maybe I’ll accept once you tell me the conditions yourself.” He tilts his head to the other side. “And I want Niffty to continue doing what you’ve set her up for, if she still wants to, but without the snake.”

Pentious’s grin doesn’t drop, and instead, he merely chuckles, Niffty’s head shaking from side to side. “ _Issssn’t it obvious? You’re a killer. And while I do have many, many soldiers under my thumb that do their damndest to carry out my every order, from murder to arson to whatever I damn well please, I will admit...Having a seasoned murderer in my grasssp does have an appealing facet to it._ ” He turns around Niffty’s body to start pacing, back and forth, back and forth, before he stops, facing away from Alastor. “ _What are_ your _conditions, my friend? Aside from the girl. What do you want to accomplish? What do you sssseek? Or, to help sweeten the deal, what do you wish for when working for me? I can give you a list of names that I need you to ssssnipe, I can give you faces that need to have their tongues silenced, I can even give you prisssoners, all perfectly tied up and ready to be mutilated to your heart’s content. What do you, a long dead killer that used to sssstain his hands with the blood of his victims, wish to have in this sinful pit of hellfire?_ ”

Dangerous questions. _Very_ dangerous questions, and Alastor was _certain_ the demon asking them had no idea of the implications behind them. He had been partially lying when he told Rosie he had a steady supply of proper food, and the temptation of getting _more_ than he had been getting for the last few decades (and in a quiet fashion too) is enough to make him want to say _yes_ right that very minute. But he was better than that. He had self control. There was one thing he had always wanted in the afterlife, and he would not let his own vices thwart that.

“All I want is to be _entertained.”_ He can feel his grin glowing as he chuckles. “It’s been _years_ since I’ve had a truly difficult kill. So give me challenges. And maybe an ounce of privacy as well. I prefer killing without eyes on me, but I understand if, for business purposes, you can’t do that immediately.”

“ _Entertainment, is it? Ohh, trusssst me, my friend...That is something I can provide.”_ He can practically hear the amusement in Pentious’s voice, Niffty’s body turning around to face him. _“Ssso....All I have to do is let the girl be and have the deal be cassst onto you, and in exchange, you’ll work for me so that you may relive your glory days of bloodshed and slaughter. Anything else you want to offer to the table?”_

"Hmm.... Give me the mornings off work? Primarily at least. That's when I'm working my day job. Hate to break schedule there."

Pentious hums for a moment, before nodding twice. _“A fair request, I suppose.”_ He moves to hop back onto the coffee table, stretching Niffty’s hand out toward him, a grin growing back on his face. _“A pleasure dealing with you. Sir Pentious. 1888.”_

"Please, the pleasure is mine. Alastor. 1933." He copies Pentious' smile, rolls up his sleeve to expose black dapples on grayish skin, and takes Niffty's hand.

The moment his hand clasps onto her’s, Niffty’s fingers grows tight, constrictive, a death grip that tightens to the point where it is almost painful. The snake, so silent and unmoving on her wrist since her body’s possession, wiggles to life, it’s one eye snapping open as it slowly begins to pull it’s head back, fangs retracting from the flesh of Niffty’s wrist until they are entirely free, two beads of dark blood rising up to quickly start dripping down her arm. The fangs glinted in the light of the room, dripping with crimson, serrated on the sides and hooked violently on the ends, no doubt in order to make sure that nothing could rip them out before the venom settled in. The snake hisses as it slithers it’s way across their connected hands, immediately starting to coil tight around Alastor’s elbow, looping itself down the length of his arm until it finally reached his wrist, jaw dropping open, lips curled back as it lunges forward, fangs sinking down directly into his flesh, to the point where Alastor can feel the veins being _pierced._ There was shuddering from the snake’s body as it’s muscles adjust, as it’s scales bunch and slide over the skin of his arm, and the eye on top of the snake’s head pulses _green_ as it’s form begins to slowly sink downwards, begins to blend itself into his flesh, like that of an ink tattoo, until finally, even the head is taken under, the sharp, aching pain of fangs piercing deep still felt in his wrist.

He winces slightly, though he manages to maintain eye with Pentious as the snake finally settles under his skin. He can't ignore the familiarity of the magic. Shadows given form, given physicality, maybe even a little autonomy to make them a little more than puppets. And of course, shadows hold no real substance, so it wasn't like there was much to look for in the way of magic. Ingenious, really.

It’s only when there’s no more movement from the snake does Pentious finally decide to let go of his hand, his grin so smug, so calm, and he lets out a chuckle. _“I do look forward to us meeting face to face, Alastor. I shall have one of my more top operatives come by to esssscort you to my home base at your earliest convenience. When do you ssssuppose we can meet?”_

"Hmm." Alastor carefully holds his arm up, inspecting the changes. The ink stained look of his hand covers most of the snake, but the eye stares at him brightly. He could more than likely manage walking about outside with his sleeves rolled. Good to know. "I should be free most of tomorrow, if that fits your schedule." He starts smoothing his sleeve back down. "How does early afternoon sound?"

 _“Soundssss perfect.”_ That grins grows just a touch wider. _“And remember, Alassstor, that the venom within that mark is quite the deadly toxin. One wrong move, one falsssse trick, one pathetic attempt, and...”_ Niffty’s fingers snap, though nothing happens. _“Get the picture?”_

"Of course." He inclines his head, a touch amused. "I wouldn't dream of it.” 

“ _You’d find it funny how many times I’ve heard such a claim. You’d find it even more funny how many times they end up lying in the end. But you don’t strike me as a liar. Not yet.”_ Niffty’s head tilts for a moment. _“I suppose only time will tell. Try not to disssapoint me.”_

With that, still standing on top of the coffee table, Niffty’s eyes slowly shuts, and the grin on her face falls away into blank incomprehension, her body starting to sway before tipping forward limply, starting to fall.

"Oh dear!" Alastor quickly puts his hands out to steady her, holding her arms and ignoring the sharp throb as the motion puts pressure on his wrist. "Niffty? Darling, can you hear me?"

There was nothing for a moment, her body simply limp in his arms, like that of a corpse, before her body twitches, hands curling to sloppily grip around his arms, head slowly lifting as her eye flutters open, no longer sightless, back to normal. “...Wh...What happened? I just got really dizzy for a sec and then...”

"Do you remember anything, dear?" He ever so slightly tightens his grip as she moves to shift forward, off the coffee table. "Careful, you, um..." He exhales slightly, then gently picks her up and sets her on the couch next to him, where she wouldn't fall and hurt herself. He puts a hand to her forehead, checking for clamminess but only finding her a slight bit cold. "How do you feel?"

“Uh...A little bit of a headache, if that’s what you’re asking...What happened?” She looks up towards him, then blinks, lifting her arm up, expression dropping at the sight of the drying blood on her wrist. “...What did you do?”

"I... Well..." He avoids her gaze. "Sir Pentious possessed you, and I spoke with him. I talked him into transferring the snake from you to me."

 _“What?!”_ Her eye widens and she reaches out to grip his arm, yanking up the sleeve to see that the serpent was indeed fastened to his skin. Her expression twists into that of anger, and she grits her teeth, pushing his arm away. “Why would you do that?!”

Alastor blinks, both at the sudden pull and push he doesn’t have time to react to and the anger lacing her words. "I thought it would be for the best?" He's never had a statement come out as a question before and he furrows his brows at the realization. "It just made more sense."

“How?! How would it make more sense to take the deal?! You’re currently in hiding, still, or did you just forget?!” She’s standing up on the couch now, hopping down to start pacing, a much more frantic pacing than Pentious’s own methodical march. She runs a hand through her hair, her other hand balled into a fist at her side. “Ok, yes, I will admit, I wasn’t prepared for the snake and the venom. Yes, I didn’t realize I was signing my soul over to an Overlord, but Nora wasn’t exactly being the most specific, and I was getting desperate, alright?” She turns to face him, her expression now mixing into that of frustration, of concern and anger all at once. “I was getting desperate because I wanted to _help_ you. To help other people like you, and if I can’t do that without getting a bullet lodged in my skull, than what can I do at all? If I can’t protect myself or protect you from Vox or Valentino or _anyone,_ then what good am I as a nurse? Going to Pentious wasn’t what I was expecting, yeah, but it was _my_ decision. It was my choice. I shook his hand, I accepted the deal, I was ready to claim responsibility. And then you just...just go and yank the snake out of my arm and rip it away because - because _what?_ Why? Why did you do it?”

Alastor's eyes are wide and for a solid second he does nothing. This is not how he had expected things to go at all, but then again, he hadn't been expecting any snake's to get involved in the first place. "I... thought..." Why did he do this again? "I believe I was... concerned." Right. Yes. That. Two year old Niffty with too big of a heart. Recipe for disaster, and one he didn't want to see.

Niffty stares at him for a moment, as if trying to decipher his wording, before she just sighs and shakes her head, looking away. “You don’t need to be concerned about me. I should be concerned about you. You’re the one being hunted. You’re the one being tracked down. I’m just the nurse that happened to find you bleeding out in the streets, and as a nurse, I’m supposed to keep you from getting hurt, or worse, ending up _dead.”_ Her arms fold. “I’m supposed to learn how to take care of myself down here, right? You keep telling me that. And then you go and just...make things worse for yourself.” 

He blinks and stares, uncertain what precisely she means. Make things worse for himself? He tilts his head. "Dear, I know it may not seem like it, but this-" He holds up his arm. "-more than likely will end up helping me more than it will you. You've only been in Hell for two years - less, actually, if this is your second year. And Hell _will_ change you, whether you like it or not." He holds a hand up quickly. "I'm not saying you won't want to help people, but I can't help but imagine what could happen if you have a deal with an Overlord contingent on you _not_ changing."

“But what about _you?”_ She looks back up towards him. “Sure, you’ve been down here way longer than I have, but this is still an Overlord! Like, this guy, Sir Pentious, he isn’t what you think he is, Al. You’re already in hot water with Valentino and Vox, and what you did was basically the equivalent of jumping out of the cooking pot and into a _geyser!”_

"Cooking pots aren't nice places for people to be." He smirks but relents at the look on her face. "My issues with Valentino and Vox have only to do with my radio station. I expose their creep joints and other nefarious dealings as scams out of pure boredom and they take it personally when their ratings drop instead of fixing their business." He rolls his eyes. "Sir Pentious, from what I know, is a much more reasonable individual who doesn't depend on frivolous ideals like emotions to run his gambit. Either way, I've been out of the game for long enough. I've been resting since the forties, and now it's the sixties. If I spend another ten years doing nothing but radio, I'll be happy but stir crazy, and I'm an absolute menace when bored."

Niffty stares for a moment, frowning, her hands clenched tight. “Al, come on, take this seriously. Boredom or not, out of the game or not, you’re still in danger of dying out there. Sure, you come back, you regenerate, you don’t _really_ die, but death is still _death,_ and I’m _positive_ that those creeps out there have ways of making sure that you never see the light of day again. Are you really going to risk it?”

"I've _been_ risking it by sitting back and letting them wreck my equipment once every few years or months or whatever." Alastor stands, brushing invisible dirt off his new vest. "I've let them go long enough without fighting back, and I'm tired of it. And as much as I may seem ill and feeble, especially given the condition I was in when we met..." He trails off, considering not finishing his sentence, and looks Niffty in the eye. "There's a reason I'm in Hell, Niffty, and it isn't a pretty one. I can handle myself against some street thugs, especially if I'm playing my cards right."

There was a long amount of silence, a tense one, one where it felt as if the very air was holding it’s breath, as Niffty stares up toward him, her expression wracked with worry, with frustration, and at his last words, a sobering clarity. Then, slowly, she lets out a sigh, looking back down. “...Fine. Go ahead and...I don’t even know what you’ll do. I don’t want to know. Just...” She hesitates for a moment. “Just know that if you need me...If you need my help..”

Alastor relaxes slightly as she relents, glad he doesn't have to go any further in his explanation. At the sight of hesitation, he feels the stiffness in his features, and he forces his grin and eyes to soften at her words. He exhales. "You'll be the first I come to if I need anything, my dear."

“Yeah, you better.” She glances toward the floor, then toward the doorway that leads into the kitchen, before starting to walk towards it. “Come on. Lets see if your friend made sure to have the fridge stocked with anything. I’m getting hungry and I dunno if there are any take out places around here.”

"Yes, let's hope there's something to cook." He let's an ounce of humor into his voice and follows her eagerly. "I doubt there'd be the ingredients for jambalaya, but Rosie does know me rather well." 

“What’s jambalaya?”

"Hah! What's this?" Alastor brings a hand to his chest in disbelief. "If you've never had jambalaya before, I'm going to _have_ to make it. Do you like shrimp by any chance?"

“Never had it.” She can’t help but grin slightly. “But I have a feeling I’ll end up liking it. Was it something you learned yourself?”

"Oh no! Taught by my mother, best cook to ever grace Earth!" He smiles proudly.

She lets out a chuckle at the sight of his gigantic grin, at the way his chest puffs out in pride, some of the tension she had in her chest already starting to melt away. She opens the fridge, seeing that is was full of all sorts of fresh produce, and can’t help but grin. “Looks like we got a lot of stuff to work with. Let’s see if you’re any good. You can’t get any worse than my dad, that’s for damn sure.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of prostitution, mild sexual content, blood

The room is entirely silent. Valentino’s claws click together as he stares down at the arm and plastic containers now sitting on his desk - on top of a pillowcase, of course - and contemplates the situation. His papers had been moved to a separate table for the time being, and he could feel the eyes on him even more than usual as a result. Rex and Angel Dust stand uneasily in front of him, waiting for his next words. Vox no longer sits off in the shadows, having moved closer with a couple choice curses when he had first seen the arm. But all of them were quiet.

Valentino needed to think.

He needed to think _fast._

“How much else was there?”

“At least five other boxes, from what we can count, all in the freezer. The fridge, or whatever was in it, was completely wiped clean by the time we got there. We don’t know if someone stole it or if he had somehow come back to grab it, but all we know is that it’s gone.” Angel kept his arms crossed, trying to keep his eyes on Valentino instead of the putrid sight that was now sitting pretty for all to see on the desk. Most of the frost on the arm was gone now, melted away no doubt, and all he could do was pray that it didn’t start _moving._

The Overlord watches him as he talks, fingertips pressed against each other and eyes hidden behind rose colored glass. “We probably would have heard something if he showed his face in the area again. Unless he was fast and _very_ quiet, which doesn’t seem like him.” He exhales and picks up one of the plastic containers, grimacing as he looks it over. “A cannibal that’s more than a _cannibal._ Jesus fucking Christ.” He glances at the arm in front of him. “They’re from the same person. Hopefully that means he... eats with moderation.” He sets the container back on the stack, shaking his head. “If Hell finds out about this, there’d be a panic, I fuckin’ swear.”

“What fucking worries me is where he gets the...” Angel grimaces, and his claws tighten over his elbows. “the _meat_ from. This guy hid the bodies in the basement of his house back when he was running around eating people topside. And we looked all over, Boss, circled the entire damn house, top to bottom. No fucking basement anywhere. If he’s not storing the bodies somewhere to be fucking cut into pieces like _cattle_ , then that means he’s either stashing the bodies somewhere else, somewhere _we_ don’t know, or..I-I don’t even fucking know.”

Vox’s eyes narrow, his pupils flickering into thin slits. “Well, he’s gotta be doing this somehow. Probably attacking people out of nowhere and dragging them off to be cut into pieces. Hacking them up. It’s no wonder it doesn’t end up regenerating.” He grimaces in disgust.

“If he cut everything up,” Valentino says coldly, “then that _arm_ should be the one regenerating. Freezing stops the process, at least to an extent.” One of his antennae twitches. “Either he has a secondary location where he keeps the bodies, or he takes them one at a time. We’ve chased him around Hell and he hasn’t been picky about where he goes, which means _if_ he has some kinda butcher shop, it’s either close to center city, or he doesn’t mind long walks - which would mean it’s not in _our_ territory, but someone else’s.”

He steeples his hands again, staring down at the desk as if expecting the hand to start writhing about. He couldn’t care less about finding where the guy was stashing his meals. In all honesty, he’d rather the guy slip back into obscurity and never get involved with him ever again. But he had a feeling that wouldn’t be an option.

“We know all his names,” he says slowly, “and we have a picture of him.”

“..You think we should put a bounty on him or something? Start covering the streets in his mugshots? There’d be plenty of bastards that’d be willing to try bagging his corpse for cash.” Vox’s eyes flick to Valentino, his hands resting on the edges of the desk now. “We could let _those_ poor fuckers kill themselves instead of our own men.” 

Angel frowns at that, softly. “You sure about that? That would just force him into hiding even more.”

Vox’s eyes flick towards him, and his eyes narrow, his expression unable to be read, a small ripple rising up through the frame of his screen. “He’s gonna be going into hiding no matter what. At that point, the best thing you can do is drive him out and corner him so he can’t hide anymore. Put his back against the wall.”

"He's also a serial killer," Valentino reminds them. "He may _want_ the attention. And there's a lotta fucked up people down here who may just flock to him because of it. And he has a sizable base on his radio station who are _intent_ on figuring out what the guy looks like. It'd cause a bit of an uproar but all he has to do is deny the claims and say it's a hit job - which it pretty much is." He looks at Vox. "We can hunt _Alastor_ but we can't hunt _Smiles._ He plays a good game."

“So what do you suggest we do then? Keep _this-”_ At that, Vox waves a hand at the arm. “-secret from everyone else? Let this bastard walk free, knowing he’s out there somewhere, not only eating _demons,_ but with some fucked up magic that somehow lets him rip your men into pieces like they’re made of paper?”

"I don't know what you saw in your day, kid, but when the press goes and gives attention to shit like _this-"_ He gestures to his desk, the thawing limb. "-people topside go nuts. The killers _love_ the attention. Down here? Who the fuck knows. Ah!" Valentino snaps a hand up in front of Vox's screen. "No. Just think. Not about the freak on the streets. About the media. You're the expert. Think about what happened when Smiles got caught _post mortem._ Then consider what woulda happened if he _wasn't_ dead."

There was another ripple that momentarily distorts the image on his screen as Val stops him from talking, and his head jerks back ever so slightly, his teeth bared in a soft scowl, one that fades as he goes quiet. His eyes narrow softly. “...People would either take to the streets with guns and attack dogs, or they’d go and lock themselves in their houses, also with guns, shooting at their own damn shadows. Mass panic.”

"And how do you think someone who does _this_ would like that?" He leans back in his chair. "You see, I'm not sayin' we do nothin'. But we have to be smart about this. I run a business. If everyone's flipping shit, they go to anyone. That's just my piece of the pie. Rosie's smart enough to only want to kill you for causing mass panic, but she'll do _something_ to cripple you. I've seen her do it before. Sir Pentious would have a field day with the chaos. And Alastor? Gets another news segment, watches all the fires play out, and laughs at us setting our asses on a hot plate." He waves at his desk and one of the guards in the room walks over and gingerly starts taking the evidence. "As far as we know, he's been _enjoying_ the chase we've given him. Coulda been that he _left_ this so we'd flip our shit. Who. Fucking. Knows? He's fucking insane, like most people in Hell."

Vox is quiet, his teeth slowly slipping away from view, and his eyes seem to flicker ever so slightly, going from their crimson hue to something else, an image of a tower, an image of an armored blimp, of flames and bodies, before he blinks, and his eyes come back. “..What do you suggest we do then? We can’t do _nothing.”_

"I don't know. I wasn't the one who wanted to jump in this." He exhales, looking at Rex and Angel for a moment before shaking his head. "I can see a few options, but these two need to get back to their work. You and I think on it, talk it over, and we'll decide later."

Angel frowns slightly, and his arms uncross, one pair going to rest on his hips. “Wait, hold on, what? You want us to just-to just go back to work? After going out there and poking around this freak’s house?”

"Yeah. That's what I said, innit?" His gaze sweeps back to Angel, one brow raised. "You still have hours to meet for me. You going out there and getting me this was repayment for spookin' the fucker off. Make it an easy day or whatever, but you're still workin'."

Angel felt his eyes narrow, and he doesn’t speak for a moment, trying his best to squash down the irritation that was flaring up in his chest; even if he was already feeling tired and worn out, he knew that didn’t give him any excuse to suddenly start mouthing off to his boss, not if he wanted to leave in one piece. He nods softly, sighing. “Heard loud and clear, Boss.”

Rex, likewise, nods, but says nothing, his one remaining ear pressed flat to his skull.

"Then you two can-" He waves his hands at them. "Go on. Leave." He gives Vox a short look, then shakes his head and leans back. "And stay outta trouble. Everyone. And _don't_ breathe a word of this to anyone, ya hear? I don't want some knucklehead goin' around thinking they have the biggest news headline of the century in their pocket."

“Yes, Boss. Not a word.” Angel sighs, running a hand through his hair, mentally preparing himself for a night of trying to keep himself from knocking an asshole’s teeth out. “Where am I stationed tonight, exactly?”

"The Moonlight Blitz on the south end." He pulls open a drawer and takes a cigar out, cutting the end into the drawer. He flicks a lighter open. "Still getting your monthly schedule fixed up by the way. Should be done pretty soon. Just need to clarify a few things with some other boneheads first. Business stuff."

“Right. Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Angel glances toward Rex, narrowing his eyes at him before moving to walk out of the room. He pauses for a moment, his hand slowly moving to reach into his pocket, and pauses again, his eyes angled down toward the floor. After a second of silence, he shakes his head, turns the knob, and slips past the door, letting it shut behind him. 

Rex, now alone with both Vox and Val, begins to look a touch more nervous, his eyes wide in his sockets, his ear pressed flat, and he slowly glances toward his boss. “..Um...I’m not entirely sure of my station either.”

Vox glances toward him, his eyes narrowed into thin lines of red against the backdrop of black, and for a moment, he says nothing. “..North end. Go get some peeps to cough up their protection fees.”

“But...But we already did that, last week, sir.”

“Make ‘em do it again.”

“B-But...won’t the people not be able to pay up?”

“The fuck do you care? You shot a kid in the face.”

Rex’s hand instantly flies up to the stump where his ear used to be, and he goes silent. Vox growls, and he pushes up the sleeve to his coat, holding a hand in the air, clenching it into a fist. The teal hue of his claws slowly starts to dissolve into pure static, flickering hues of black, white, and his eyes flash red. “ _I won’t tell you again. North side. Get out.”_

Rex immediately leaps up from his seat, knocking it over in the process, his wings flaring up as his arms rise into the air, stumbling backwards towards the door. “ _Y-Yes, Boss!”_ His back crashes into the door, and he fumbles for the knob before managing to twist it open and running through it as fast as he could. 

Vox waits until the door shut before static retracts back from where it came, and he sighs, his hand coming up to adjust an antenna, his other moving to remove his jacket entirely, revealing a simple button up underneath, sleeves tucked and pulled up to his elbows. He moves to drape the jacket over the chair he had claimed as his own, and his eyes narrow at the wall. “Quit staring at me.”

“I ain’t staring at anythin’.” Valentino shakes his head, staring at him. “He deserved it anyways. You doin’ alright, though? You weren’t lookin’ too hot earlier.”

“The Hell you talking about?” He turns to stare at him, folding his arms, brows furrowing. “I’m fine.”

“You had some images on your face. Just checkin’.” He shrugs, finally looking away, bringing his cigar to his lip. “I’m assuming you’re going after Smiles still, right?”

“Of fucking course I am. My only question is, why aren’t you?” He points a talon in his direction. “This guy is turning out to be a fucking landmine that could be set off at any moment when we thought he was nothing more than some old man with a penchant for sticking his nose into places it doesn’t belong! He’s dangerous, an actual honest to God _threat_ now, and we’re just-” He pauses to let out a bitter chuckle, and his eyes narrow. “Oh, wait! _We’re not fucking doing anything!”_

“He’s only a threat because we keep poking him.” Valentino shrugs. “This is Hell, sweet cakes. Anyone can be a threat. He’s a threat _to us_ because we’ve been the ones hassling him, and he knows it. My men have said my name, your men have said yours - he has targets because we targeted him. And like I said, I don’t mean to just lay back and do nothing, pretending he doesn’t exist until he smashes our door in with a fuckin’ hammer. But we have to be smart about it.” He blows out smoke, letting it billow about his face. “We can’t be rash about this, or else he’ll either get away _again_ or get what he wants. And we don’t even know what the Hell he wants. Not really. He’s a big question mark, and I hate dealin’ with question marks.”

“ _Ugh.”_ Vox moves to sit back down in his chair, a hand running itself down his screen, creating the sound one would expect when a hand slides down against solid glass, his expression brewing with anger, with irritation, his foot tapping away against the floor. “He’s gonna get away regardless if we don’t do jackshit. Hell, he already fucking has. We got no goddamn idea where he is now, and unless he shows his mug around either of our turfs, which he _won’t,_ we probably won’t find him at all.”

“Not with that attitude.” Valentino watches him, then flicks his cigar, not caring where the ashes go. “Both Angel and Rex work the street, alright? I have plenty of men all over who at least know the guy’s face. He can’t stay at home forever. And besides, if I know Angel at all, there’s no way he’ll just up and drop all this. Not with how he’s acted about that girl. And who knows? Maybe we _do_ find a contracted killer or somethin’ to hunt this guy down. But we can’t do anything publicly. We don’t need another Jack the Ripper down here.”

“I think I saw that guy digging through the trash last week.” He sighs again, his hand moving off his screen to adjust one of his antenna again. “Something about this whole thing just bothers me, alright? I mean, I _know_ who this fucker is. Who he _used_ to be.” His eyes flash again, and this time it displays an old newspaper article that’s labeled _CANNIBAL IN NEW ORLEANS._ “The guy was made out to be the fucking boogeyman. A living monster. You know there was another killer up in Cleveland that was butchering bodies and cutting their heads off? It happened just about 1 year after the discovery. People thought that it _was him_ , that he had somehow faked getting shot in the head and was out there up in fucking Ohio mutilating people and dismembering them. People were _terrified.”_

“Precisely more reason you should take a step back and think before making your next move.” He exhales. “You may think you know him pretty well from what you heard back then, but he could be entirely different now. No tellin’ what Hell did to the son of a bitch, on top of the magic he has.”

Vox blinks, and his eyes turn back to normal, his claws clenching, his leg starting to bounce as he leans forward. “I get that, Val, fuck, I get it, but there’s also the fact that he’s out there somewhere, and could very easily be planning something. God knows what would happen if he ever tried reaching out to anyone for a fucking _deal._ The fucking Court would be itching to get their mitts on a deadly catch like him.”

“I wouldn’t take him.” He taps his cigar again. “Way too much of a loose canon. He’s a lone wolf. I doubt he’d play well in any kind of system but his own. Plenty of people like that try to get into my business, and all of them get kicked to the curb. Lucifer’s even more picky than I am. Though he does like his games...” He scowls at the idea and bites on his cigar.

“Yeah, I know _you_ fucking wouldn’t take him, but my point is that so many more _could_ and probably _will_ if given the chance. You gonna look me in the eye and tell me that not one of Lucifer’s attack dogs wouldn’t jump at the chance to have their very own pet serial killer? Out of all fucking twenty five?”

“...Hm.” Valentino looks away from him, toward a window facing out to the City. “At least one of them would take him. That’s for sure.”

“And all they’d have to fucking do is promise to offer him our _heads_ on a god damn platter. I know we got power, Val, and I know we have men, but do you really think that’ll be enough to hold any of them back? Hold back even one of those fallen angels?”

“They’ve done hits on Overlords before, but not for some random on the street.” He turns back to Vox. “You haven’t met Lucifer yet. There’s a reason he’s the King. He sets the rules and lets us play the game without ever realizing it.” The cigar burns where it sits between his lips. “Sending fallen angels to kill a head player breaks the rules and ruins the fun. His Court, of all people, know that. And you don’t wanna see Lucifer mad, I can tell you that much.”

Vox goes quiet for a moment, before sighing. “Somehow that doesn’t make me any less worried....” He goes silent for a moment. “...You think he’d go to the fucking snake?”

“ _Guh.”_ He drops his head back for a moment. “Kid, you ask a lot of questions. Love ya for it, but still.” His claws click against the armrest of his chair. “Would he go to him? I... He’d have to find the guy. Or someone who works for him. Not easy to do. We coulda freaked him out enough, but he usually sticks to himself. I’d place my bet on him going solo. It’s what he’s done in the past from what we can tell.”

“Hey, I’m only asking because you’re the closest one who has _any_ fucking idea about how Pentious operates, because I sure don’t. The man is a god damn enigma; he just shows up out of thin air with his fancy machines, sets the entire district ablaze, and then fucking pulls a Houdini and disappears without a god damn trace. The only thing we know about who works under him is that they have those weird black marks on them, and even then, that’s all we _can_ know because if anyone tries to tell us anything, they fucking _melt._ You were around to see him rise to Overlord status, weren’t ya? You actually _talked_ to him once, if I’m recalling right.”

“Yeah, he pulled a few stunts, got Lucifers attention, and landed himself a grimoire. Rite of passage shit.” He shrugs. “I attended the party to tell him off about damaging one of my warehouses and he responded by _not_ destroying my entire district. He targeted all the Overlords who didn’t come. Massive ego, easily shattered. Nice manners, but he doesn’t play nice.”

“Exactly proving my point.” He sighs and lets his head rest in his hands, one rubbing over his screen. “...Didn’t think I could get a headache, but lo and behold, I have one now.”

“If I’m bein’ honest,” Valentino says slowly, waving his cigar, “if Smiles went to Pentious.... I don’t think he’d last long. If Pentious is doing anything close to what I’m doing, in any way, he needs order. Smiles is anything _but_ order, no matter how much he tries to hide it.”

“Maybe, but we don’t _know_ what Pentious is doing, do we?”

“Not in the slightest.” He brings the cigar back to his lips and takes another hit.

“Exactly.” He sighs, going quiet for a moment. “...You say you don’t like question marks. I say I don’t like being ambushed.”

“That’s why I don’t like question marks.”

•••

“Dad, please, the guards aren’t that necessary, I don’t need to take them with me into the City. I don’t want people noticing me and, I dunno, begging for an autograph or something, alright? In fact, I’d rather not be noticed at all, because of people possibly freaking out. I don’t think having two giant hellhounds with me will make me exactly inconspicuous.”

“Now, sweetheart, you know what happened the last time we took you into the City-“

“That was _years_ ago, Dad, and you know that I can take care of myself, right?” 

“It wasn’t _that_ long ago.”

“It was 1800. Literally the first year of the 18th century.” 

“...Ok, so, maybe it’s..been a while..”

“ _Please_ , Dad, I don’t need any guards. I’m fine with just Razzle and Dazzle.”

“Hm....” Lucifer presses his lips together, palms pressed together in a solid clasp and brows drawn tight over his forehead. His eyes dart over the little goat demons, ones he had made himself with the express purpose of keeping his daughter safe. Razzle gives him a big grin and thumbs up, and Dazzle blinks innocently up at him. His humming grows louder and he looks up at his daughter, who was almost giving him the same eyes - _of course they learned it from her_ \- but with a slight tinge of exasperation. He feels more than hears Lilith shift next to him and he breaks. “Okay! Okay. Fine.” He puts his hands up. “No extra guards. With you. In this limousine-”

“Honey.”

“Okay! No guards. No. Guards. Fine.” He almost pouts, though if anyone were to say anything, he’d deny it vehemently. “Do you remember rule one?”

“ _Honey.”_

“It’s a good rule to know!”

Charlie’s entire body seems to light up when she hears him agree to not being saddled with guards, her smile growing wide and lively and jubilant, only to drop the moment the rule was mentioned, and she groans, her head tilting back as her spine slouches backwards, arms hanging limply by her sides. “ _Uuuugh.”_ She then takes a deep breath and straightens her back again, putting her hands on her hips as her voice dips down in a comically low tone. “ _You don’t take shit from other demons.”_

Lucifer’s shoulders relax at the words, though he rolls his eyes at the impression she put on. “Oh, come - come on, I don’t sound like _that.”_

Lilith chuckles lightly, patting his shoulder. “I’m afraid you do, dear.” She brings her other hand to her hips and fixes her features into something a touch more stern, heels clicking in place tight together. “ _Always carry a comb; you’ll need to use it when you least expect it!”_

“Oh-” He feels his face heat up and he covers his face, though a chuckle slips past his lips. “Come on! Not both of you. I can’t- _Ugh!”_ He waves his hands in front of him, straightening through a laugh. “So difficult. I love you.”

Lilith grins and leans down, pecking his cheek. “I love you too, dumpling.”

“Love you too, Dad.” Charlie’s face turns into a grin, a sincere smile, moving to pull him into a tight hug. “Thanks again. For letting me see the City and stuff.”

He wraps her in a hug just as tight as the one she gives him, if not a touch tighter. “Of course, darling. Please be safe. And call if you need us! And don’t forget to eat lunch, but be careful of the restaurants. Some of them are really weird.”

Lilith shifts Charlie’s hair back and kisses her forehead before wrapping them both in a much more delicate hug. “Ignore him. The weird restaurants are where all the fun is.”

“Darling.”

“Honey.”

“Heheheh. I know, I know. Jeez, you two keep acting like it’s the 1600’s; I know how Hell works.” She pulls back from the hug, smirking. “Wouldn’t be a very good princess if I didn’t know about the weird stuff.”

“And you are Hell’s best princess.” Lucifer reaches up to cup her face, smiling widely, though his eyes seemed a touch watery. “Be safe, and I love you, and please come back.”

“Aww, deary.” Lilith moves her arm around his shoulders, her other moving to cover one of his. “Be safe, but not too safe, or else you’ll have no fun. And of course you’ll come back; we have your favorite cakes and no one else does.”

“Lili, please, my love.”

“And we love you _very_ much, and he will never survive without you, I’m certain.”

“Lili.”

“ _Oh my God,_ you two, I’m only going for a _day.”_ Charlie can’t help but shake her head in response to seeing the tears building up in her dad’s eyes, though she giggles, a hand coming up to squeeze the free hand that Lucifer still had left. “You two are ridiculous.” 

She feels a tug on her pant leg, and she looks down to see Razzle pointing a thumb over his shoulder, and her eyes slide up to see the limousine waiting for her, engines audibly running, and the back door wide open, waiting for her to climb inside. She sighs and nods toward Razzle. “I know, I know, gimme a second.” She glances back up toward her father and moves to gently push his hands to his sides. “Dad, come on, I gotta go.”

“Hmm....” His lips press together and he starts humming again.

Lilith sighs softly, moving behind him and linking her arms over his chest. “I’ve got him. Make a run for it.”

“ _Ugh,_ you two.” He rolls his eyes, squeezing her hand. “Okay, okay. Go on. I’ll miss you.”

Lilith rests her head on his hat. “Run, my child.”

Charlie can’t help but giggle, giving a wink towards her mother before finally moving to start walking down the steps towards the limousine, Razzle quick to move beside her, as does Dazzle, on her opposite side, her hands moving down to hold their own, a familiar way of walking that they had always done from the day that they were brought to life. She lets them hop into the back of the limo first before moving to slide in herself, giving a final wave to her parents before slamming the door shut. She almost immediately sags in her seat, letting out a heavy sigh as she buckles herself in, before glancing over toward her two companions, grinning tiredly at them. “I thought I’d _never_ leave.” 

Razzle is quick to nod in eager agreement, flashing a tired grin right back. Dazzle rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue. 

“Dazzle, he is _not_ annoying.” 

Dazzle raises a dubious eyebrow.

Charlie manages to keep eye contact for a few seconds before finally breaking. “Ok, fine, he is. A little. Sometimes.” She huffs. “You shush.”

He flashes a mischievous grin, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

A window to the front seat opens an inch. “Ready to go, My Princess?”

Lilith’s voice calls from outside, “Drive, chauffeur!”

“Well, I guess that answers that.” The window snaps shut and the vehicle eases forward into a steady, moderate pace.

Charlie can’t help but take a peek through the window, watching as Lucifer lifts a hand above his head to wave, waving so vigorously that it almost looks like he’s about to knock off his own hat, and she feels a grin grow back onto her lips. “..I don’t really care if he can be annoying, anyway. He’s my Dad.”

Razzle clasps his hands to his cheeks, his grin growing from ear to ear as his tail wags from side to side. Dazzle points to the inside of his mouth with his tongue sticking out. 

“Dazzle, you hush up or I won’t get you any ice cream.”

His eyes widen and he immediately drops his hand, mouth clicking shut. Razzle’s shoulders shake, hands moving to cover his mouth. Dazzle narrows his eyes on him.

Outside, Lucifer watches the limousine turn down one of the many curves on the estate, eventually disappearing and reappearing behind rose bushes and well-trimmed hedges. He slowly lowers his hand, letting out a small breath as his smile starts to fade. He holds where Lilith’s arms cross over his chest. “Darling... did I... really keep her in the castle for over a hundred and sixty years?”

Lilith pauses for a moment before letting out a soft sigh, giving his hand a squeeze, already preparing herself for what was coming. “...Technically a hundred and sixty _one_ years, dear.”

He says nothing, squeezing her hand back, feeling the tears that had gathered finally fall. He slowly turns in the embrace, wrapping his arms around her. “Why am I so _bad_ at this?”

“You aren’t, darling, you aren’t.” She moves to take off his hat so that she may press her cheek into his hair. “You’ve never been a father, so you have no way of knowing what’s good and what isn’t. That, and we’re talking about _our_ daughter; one must expect a few hiccups when raising a hybrid of such magnitude.”

“Hmm.” His arms tighten around her. “You know I don’t like it when you call her that. It sounds so... mechanical.” He sniffles and buries his face. “ _Guh,_ I miss her already.”

“Sorry, darling.” She moves to press a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m just trying to say that we can’t expect everything to go perfectly all the time with her. We’ll make mistakes, even when we think they’re the best to do for her, and in the end, all you can do is learn from them.”

“I’m horrible at learning.” He slumps hopelessly. “I flunked school, you know.”

That gets her to chuckle a touch, and she pulls back to cup his cheeks in her hands. “My sweet little hellfire, I can assure you that you have been a _wonderful_ parent and that our little Charlie loves you so, so much.”

Lucifer’s grin returns just the slightest, and he covers one of her hands at her words. “I... certainly hope so.”

“I _know_ so, hun. A mother has a way of knowing, I assure you.” She presses a kiss right in the area where his nose would be.

He chuckles lightly. “That’s good to hear, Lili.” Lucifer brings his hands to her chin and gently presses a kiss to her lips. “Patience, right? All in good time.”

“Exactly.” She smiles down at him, lovingly, and with a swift movement, manages to sweep him off his feet and into her arms, bridal style, spinning around in a circle. “Come on, now, honey! Let's hear a laugh! Let's hear that cackle that made God shudder in his boots as he sat upon his throne!”

“Hu-Whoa!” The world around him blurs into smudges of red and black and amaranthine and off-white, and his arms instinctively wrap around her neck. A small giggle startles from his throat. “Dear, you’re going to get dizzy!” He snickers, suppressing the laugh, as the colors start to bleed into one another.

“I’m not hearing that laugh of yours I love so much! Come on! Laugh for me, my angel of death!” She only starts to spin faster.

“Oh - dear! Haha!” Lucifer snorts as he tries to hold his laughter in a moment longer and his composure entirely crumbles, a high, peeling laugh echoing from his lips. He lets one of his arms loose, momentarily shifting their weight, and they stumble for a moment before rebalancing, the small jolt only making him laugh harder, small wheezes lacing between his cackles. “Ha, whee!” He waves his hand and kicks one leg up in the air.

Lilith herself can’t help but start laughing too, a high-pitched guffaw that is filled with snorting, finally stopping her spinning, stumbling back to lean against the wall, finally moving to place him down. “Ohh...Ohh, I missed that laugh...” She raises a hand to the side of her head. “I’d give you a kiss but I think I’m seeing double.”

He tilts as his feet touch the ground, holding her hand and summoning his cane to keep himself upright, giggling all the while. “I told you you’d get dizzy.” He snickers, looking up at her, at the wide grin on her face, at the unfocused look in her eyes. It was all so silly. He loved her all the more for it. “Heheh. I love you, my dearest Lili.”

“Heheh..” Lilith’s eyes manage to blink back into focus, and she smiles down toward him. “I love you too, my darling Luci.”

•••

“Aaaand.... there it goes!” Alastor’s hands crackle with small bits of static and the runes and sigils he drew into the mirror pane flicker to life. The splintered wood, wires, warped metal, buttons and small bits of glass vibrate, making an odd humming noise, before slowly shifting about their places. Wooden feet rebuild themselves, cracks seamless sewing together, ornate carvings polishing themselves. The metal fits back together, bending back into shape, and settles on the newly reconstructed base as the rest of the wood twists and curves above it. The face of the radio pieces itself back together, some of the glass weaving itself into the pattern, and slots into place. Alastor hums all the while, fingers twitching idly as he watches the magic do its thing, grinning widely as his beloved instrument came back to life. The sigils on the glass spark, slowly fading, only to reappear in hard to see places about the base and detailing of the radio. His hands slowly pull back as the last of the magic settles, the last few nicks fixing themselves and the light inside clicking on. Alastor tosses his hands in the air. “Oh! And a success! We have before us a Baby Grand Cathedral of the Philco style!”

Niffty stood beside him, her hands clasped to her cheeks in utter shock, eye wide and practically glowing with awe. “That...was... _incredible_ !” She practically leaps into the air from how hard her grin bounced onto her face, and she moves to zip around the table that the radio was balanced on, circling it in an attempt to make out all the sigils that were left. “When did you even learn to _do_ that kind of magic?! That was amazing!”

“Heheheh.” Alastor watches her, head darting this way and that to keep track of her movements. She had been so excited when he had mentioned using magic she likely hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t very often for him that anyone really _asked_ him to show off. Well, these days at least. “A long time ago, my dear. When I was still alive, actually. It was a bit of a family tradition, you could say.”

“Really?” She was in the middle of looking up on her toes in an effort to get a look at the top of the radio, swearing she could see a sigil peeking out over the edge of one of the corners, and when he says that, her head spins around with a sudden crack. Her expression goes from smiling to shocked in about half a second, and she blinks. “...Did...Did my head just turn like an owl’s?”

“Yes indeedy! That happens every now and then down here. Nothing to be too worried about.” He chuckles idly to himself and starts looking over the radio, checking for any odd bumps or scrapes that hadn’t fully sealed.

There was a pause before she manages to spin her head back around, her hands moving to her neck to check for damage, only to find none, and she shudders. “Guh, that felt...weird.” She glances back up toward him. “Wait, family tradition? There was magic in your family?”

“Yup. On my mom’s side.” His grin softens and he gently brushes one of the corners. A small amount of dust clings to his finger. “You may have heard of the practice, actually. Louisiana Voodoo?”

“Uhh...” She frowns for a moment, a hand coming up to tap her chin. “Maaaybe? I can recall _some_ things I heard about it. Isn’t voodoo like, uh, what do you call it, witch doctor stuff?”

“Pfft. That’s how _most_ people know it.” He shakes his head. “No, it’s a whole spiritual thing, very diverse and all. Based on African religious experiences, conglomerated by people of colour in Louisiana, so on and so forth. It gets rather complicated the further you get into it. Most of the magic side of it is about fixing things, helping people, that sort of stuff.”

“Oooh.” She glances back towards the radio, frowning softly. “So...magic is real then? Or at least voodoo magic? I mean, I know it’s real down here, since, you know, Hell and whatnot, but what about up there?” She points upwards. “Up on Earth?”

“Oh, yes, definitely.” His grin widens. “It’s different than down here, how it manifests at least, but it’s up there. I’m not entirely sure about other forms, but I can only imagine they exist. Wouldn’t make sense if it didn’t, in my opinion.” He starts fiddling with the radio frequency, turning through different channels for his own. “The magic I know comes from the soul, and everyone has a soul on Earth, you know. And it’s different from person to person as well, much like it is down here. There’s quite a lot Hell has in common with Earth, when you get down to it.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” She tilts her head ever so slightly, merely watching him for a moment, her eye trailing towards his wrist, before looking away. “So...You said this morning you were going to be led to where Sir Pentious is?”

“Yes, he said he wanted to meet face to face. Sounded like he’s not used to drawing contracts like we did yesterday.” He wiggles the fingers of the arm with the snake on it, then continues tuning the radio, humming happily.

“I guess not..” She frowns, sighing. “I know I can’t change your mind on working for him, but just...be careful, alright?” She glances back up toward him. “You’re kind of the first person I ever ran into down here to actually do good things, you know? Be a good person. I don’t want you to get hurt because you stuck your neck out for me.”

His ears perk and his gaze snaps to hers and he blinks. The first person she’d met to do good things? There was a joke in that, but he wasn’t sure it’d be a good idea to laugh. Though he comes close at hearing _good person_ being used to describe him. He turns back to his radio and allows himself a short, quiet chuckle. “You’re the first person in quite a long time that I’ve run into with similar stature, my dear.” Similar in her words. Not in comparison to himself.

“Heh..Thanks.” She grins a bit at that. “Let me know how it goes when you get back. I’ve seen the man, and let me tell you, he’s not what you think he looks like.”

“Dapper gentleman with a snake body for legs, wearing a suit and top hat?” He smirks, and then laughs loudly as the radio clicks onto his channel. “Ah! There it is. I’ve been _dying_ to do this. Let me see if I can really get some Chuck Berry outta this thing.”

She blinks at the sound of the radio speakers crackling to life, distracted for a moment, before glancing back towards him. “How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen him on the picture show once or twice.” One of his hands starts fidgeting in the air above the radio, and the static momentarily spikes before subsiding. “He likes it when the reporters ask him on for their news segments.”

“...Did you know his top hat has a mouth on it?”

“Oh? Really?” One of his brows quirk. “I could make out the eye, but a _mouth?_ That’s intriguing.” The radio sparks red for a split second and then a guitar and drums and pianos come singing out of the machine. “Haha! There we go. That should be fun for the listeners to hear.”

“Oh!” She blinks at the sound of the song, leaning forward on her toes, tilting her head. “Which one is it?”

“That title’s _You Can’t Catch Me._ ” Alastor grins wickedly as the vocals take over.

_“I bought a brand-new air-mobile, it custom-made, ‘twas a Flight De Ville, with a pow’ful motor and some hideaway wings, push in on the button and you can hear her sing, ‘Now you can’t catch! Baby you can’t catch me!’”_

He chuckles and stands, stretching and letting one of his feet tap to the rhythm. It was a bit too rock for him, but he simply couldn’t resist. He had been considering the song already, and now... well, it simply made more sense. Two birds with one stone.

_“’Cause if you get too close, you know I’m gone like a cooooool breeze!”_

_“You Can’t Catch...”_ Her expression turns from idle confusion into realization within seconds, and she actually lets out a giggle. “Oh my God. _Ohhh my God,_ you are one crazy nutcase. You are insane.”

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!” He throws his hands up over his head and can’t help but kick his legs a little to the music, twisting about and shimmying his way to the kitchen for a drink.

_“...Here come a flat-top, he was movin’ up with me, then come wavin’ by me in a little old souped-up jitney...”_

Niffty is quick to follow, starting to laugh a touch harder, both at his silly dancing moves (they looked really odd with his skinny legs) and also from the song. “I can’t believe this. I-I honest to God can’t believe you’ve done this.”

“If there’s anything I do best, it’s making good appearances!” He pulls open the fridge, scanning the layers of fruits, vegetables, meats, and finally drinks, grabbing the carton of unsweetened iced tea.

_“...Bye bye, New Jersey, I’ve become airborne! Now you can’t catch me! Baby, you can’t catch me!...”_

“Well, lets just hope that the two super demon Overlords that you just _thoroughly_ pissed off wont go busting down the front door.” She moves to grab a stool, pulling it over to the kitchen counter, hopping up so that she can reach the cabinet for the glasses, pulling two out and setting them down. “You in the mood for anything to eat? I take requests.”

"Eating. Hmm." He unscrews the bottle, pouring some tea for both of them, though it comes out a little shaky as he continues to tap his feet. "I'm feeling alright for the moment. Maybe a bit peckish, but nothing big."

“Hmm. I might whip something up, since I still don’t know the area. I know there’s a pizza place somewhere around here, which sounds good.” She takes her glass and sips at her tea, her own foot idly tapping to the rhythm of the song.

Alastor replaces the tea in the fridge before taking up his glass and sipping at it. He hates it, but drinks it nonetheless. It was the only non-sweet beverage they had beside milk, which he was simply not having at this time of day. He doesn't wince a single bit. "Hmm, I don't mind a good pizza every now and then. Usually I make them my- Oh! Thin crust or deep dish?"

_"...Big full moon shinin' up above, cuddle up honey, be my love. Sweetest little thing I've ever seen, I'm gonna name you Maybellene...."_

“Hmmm...Thin crust, for sure. Not a fan of the idea of someone taking pizza and turning it into a pie.”

"I could go for either, honestly. More meat in a deep dish, though." He shrugs easily and leans back on the counter a bit more. "Either way, the crust better be good or it's all messed up."

“Oh yeah. I prefer my crust when it’s chewy. I don’t exactly want to eat crust that feels like biting into a pencil, you know?” She sips her drink again as the music finally starts to fade out.

"Definitely, definitely." He glances in the direction of the radio, hearing Berry fading, and then takes another sip as Cab Calloway takes the stage. "Hard crust is just... Eugh."

“Cheese or pepperoni?”

_Bump-bump_

"Mm, more of a sausage person, actually." Alastor's head swivels around to look past her. "You're not expecting anyone, are you? Only me, right?"

“Hm?” She blinks upwards towards him. “..I don’t... _recall_ asking anyone to come over. Do you hear something?”

_Bump-bump_

"Yeah, someone's at the door. I'll get it." He sets his drink down and straightens, humming as he walks. He grips the handle, smile already widening for the greeting, one arm behind his back, and pulls open the door. The soft, jazzy voice of Cab Calloway that spills from the radio’s speakers immediately fizzles away and dies, leaving nothing to fill the air except for silence. A massive shape looms in the doorway, so large that it almost looks as if they wouldn’t be able to fit inside without hunching their shoulders or ducking their head, wearing thick, blackened robes and a wide-brimmed hat that seemed cast their face in shadow. A long, thick beak with the look of polished bone looms in front of him, appearing to be that of a plague doctor mask, and within the places where the eyes should be were merely glowing spheres of pure white light. 

The beast grins, and the beak’s seams split open to reveal sharp, serrated teeth. “Greet-”

Alastor's arm swings and the door slams shut. He stares for a long moment at the wood, then turns halfway to the kitchen. "Ah. Niffty? There's a massive plague doctor bird demon in front of our door right now. How worried should I be?"

“Huh?” Her head peeks around the corner. “Bird dem-Oh!” Recognition fills her gaze, and she grins. “Oh, that’s Nora.”

"Nor-" He blinks twice, brows tightening for a moment before dropping. "Oh. Of course. Pseudonyms. _Nora._ Harmless, of course." He turns, the radio instantly clicking back on, at a slightly lower volume, and he pulls open the door again, smiles wider than before and takes one of her hands, shaking vigorously. "Hello there, hello there! Apologies for my manners. I'm still so jumpy after these last few days. Alastor, 1933, though I imagine you know that already, don't you?"

Nora’s grin, still on her face, only seems to grow as their hands shake, and she can’t help but let out a soft chuckle. “Indeed, I do. And no need to apologize; surprisingly, a door getting slammed in my face is woefully common.” Her head twists to one side, one eye peering intently into Alastor’s face, before her head twists again so that the other eye can peer as well. “I will admit, when Niffty was describing her patient, I was not imagining one such as you. You look a tad thin.”

"And that is something _I_ get woefully often." He chuckles, though he leans back a bit as she seems to lean forward just an inch. "I imagine you're here to take me to, er, you know? Would you like to come in first, or should we be on our way?"

“Oh, do you mind if I come in first?” Her robes shift slightly, and her arms lift up to reveal a stack of at least three books. “I planned to deliver these to Niffty so that she may read them while we’re gone.”

"Oh, yes! Of course, of course." His head bobs enthusiastically and he pulls the door as wide as it'll go. "Come right in, my dear."

Nora, after a moment, manages to duck her head and pass her way through, the brim of her hat being forced to warp and bend as it scrapes against the sides of the door, popping back into place as soon as she makes it all the way through. Her head swivels this way and that in an effort to take in the living room’s design, humming idly in thought. “Interesting decoration, though I suspect that was more Rosie’s doing than anything.” Her eye catches sight of Niffty, and her grin brightens a touch. “Hello there, dear. Glad to see that you’re alright.” She tilts her head, grin already starting to fade a touch. “I hope that the...intensity of the deal you made with Sir Pentious doesn’t affect how you see me. I understand that the marking can be a bit overwhelming and I’ve been a tad worried that you thought less of me because of it.”

"Oh, uh, not at all." Niffty laughs shortly, rubbing the back of her head. "It was definitely a bit... much, but, well...." She shrugs, walking up to her. "I've calmed down quite a bit."

Nora actually makes an effort to crouch down in an effort to be more on her level, head twisting around to watch her with one of her eyes, and the grin on her beak starts to grow again. “That’s a relief to hear. It’s been a long while since I’ve met a fellow demon with some medical knowledge, it would’ve been a shame if I ended up chasing you away.” Her head swivels back into place, and she moves to place the books down on the coffee table. “If you still wish to try and aid me with my research, I thought the best place to start would be with my books. There are three of them, though the third is still a work in progress, so it’s not quite finished.”

"Oh, wow!" Her eye goes widen and she darts to the table to look over the titles. "I'll definitely take a look at them. Is Alastor allowed to read them? Or just me?"

"I'm not exactly a medical professional, dear." He skirts around Nora at a safe distance to watch them. "I doubt I'd be able to follow all too thoroughly."

"Yeah, but you were talking all about the soul and stuff earlier."

"Religion, not medicine."

“Hmm?” That gets Nora’s head to turn, her back to straighten up, and she turns towards Alastor. “Forgive me if this may be considered, er...nosy, I believe is the right term, but..religion of what sorts?”

He tilts his head, one brow raising at the response. He brings a finger to his chin, rubbing with his knuckle. "Hmm. Technically, it's more of a spiritual thing. Voodoo. I've told Pentious already, if it matters at all. Not that it should." He shrugs simply and folds his arms behind his back.

“Hmmm...” Something in her gaze almost seems to change, despite the rigid features of her mask not being able to change at all, save for the beak, looking back down towards her books, then back at Alastor. “Perhaps that could be useful. However, I ask that you refrain from looking at my books if you can; I’m afraid my research is quite confidential.”

"I'll stay away from them then." His grin widens, and the relaxedness about his features almost comes off like a cat waiting to pounce on its prey, all teeth and deflection. It's difficult to tell if the response is out of annoyance or something else though.

"And I'll try and refrain from asking questions out loud." Niffty clasps her hands together. "I tend to do that sometimes."

"The music can cover that, I'm sure." Alastor turns his gaze to her, grin more genuine and soft.

Nora tilts her head down toward Niffty, her grin becoming more pronounced. “I can’t wait to hear those questions, then. It’ll be interesting, having someone to teach. I look forward to it.”

"Heheh." Niffty covers her mouth as she laughs. "I look forward to it too! It's been a while since I've actually _learned_ something new."

“Hehehe. Well, I’m sure you’ll learn plenty, if you go looking in these.” She gives the first book a tap with a claw. “460 years of research, all contained within these. Though I do have to warn you that some of the knowledge in certain parts of those books are a bit..outdated, shall we say. I made sure to put in notes to point out which ones ended up being false.”

"Oh, I'm used to that! Thanks for the heads up, though." She flashes a big grin, then glances at Alastor, grin faltering. "And you stay out of trouble, alright?"

"Of course, my dear." He inclines his head toward her. "I intend to return in one piece, as usual."

Nora nods, then turns towards Alastor again. “Anything you need to do before we leave?”

"Hmm... No, I should be ready." He bounces slightly in place for just a moment.

“Hmm. Very well.” She nods, before turning to nod toward Niffty. “I’ll bring him back as soon as Sir Pentious is through with his business.”

Niffty nods, smiling softly. "Thank you, Nora."

Alastor rolls his eyes and starts walking to the door. "Well, if that's all...."

“You’re an impatient one, aren’t you?” Nora turns to begin walking towards the door as well, turning back one last time to offer Niffty a small wave before closing the door behind her.

"I'm excited, there's a difference." He trots out the door, arms still behind his back.

“Excited? Not quite the response I hear from someone who’s about to work for an Overlord, much less one of Pentious’s stature.” She makes her way to walk beside him, the both of them making their way down the pathway and to the sidewalk. “But then again, from what Niffty has told me, you aren’t exactly the regular type of demon that wanders through Hell.” He can feel one of her eyes move to glance toward him, feel her gaze on him, and he feels the cracking haze of magic, however slight, tremble in the air.

"There's nothing fun in being average." Alastor waves a hand, skillfully ignoring the magic drifting off her and keeping his own in check. It was an interesting feeling, willingly surrounding himself with other people who, if not simply curious about his capabilities, were seriously contemplating how their magic compared. "Besides, Overlords are just like anyone else, only they've found power and sunk their teeth in while they can. Thinking of them as _higher beings_ or impossibly out of your league is half of what gives them their status."

“Hmm. Perhaps you have a point.” She gives an idle shrug, before looking away. “I think you’ll find that Pentious isn’t like most Overlords, however. Not in that he’s somehow _higher_ than most, as you’ve put it, but...Well, I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

"He's intrigued me the most out of them all. He doesn't play by the rulebooks others hold." His grin grows on his face, though he still doesn't look at Nora. A few others walking on the street cross to the other side. He wishes it was because of himself. "I've looked into almost all the Overlords in my time. I like keeping track of what they're doing."

“Hmm. I can understand that. Used to do the very same thing, around the eve of the 19th century. Fewer Overlords then, but ones that definitely had a much fiercer grip on their territory. To think that so much could change in a few decades.”

"Things definitely change quickly, don't they?" He glances at the buildings they pass, wondering what they must've looked like as cobblestone masonry. "How far do we have to walk? Trying to gauge conversation topics."

“To my home, on the Northwest end. That’s where we must go.”

"Ah, not too far then." He tilts his head, glancing at her sideways. "I do wonder what kind of house you have. Must be bigger than most."

“Hmm. I suppose you could say that. I did my best to add onto the decor it already came with. Gave it my own flair.”

"One should expect such a thing. Niffty and I only just moved in, so things are rather bare at the moment. Neither of us are used to such a large house, though. It'll be interesting figuring things out."

“I bet it will be.” There was a slight pause. “..Interesting how that radio I heard happened to cut to static the moment you opened the door. Mind explaining why you slammed the door? I don’t take offense, I’m simply curious.”

"You're rather recognizable to a properly aged eye." He notably looks up at her comment, glancing over her mask and hat. "I know you by your other name."

“Hmm.” Her grin doesn’t seem to change, still exposing those pearly white fangs. “Is that so?”

"Whip Wraith." He tilts his head, an eyebrow arching. "The mysterious figure who wanders the streets of Pentagram City during the Purges, picking fights with angels. A plague doctor with ethereal chains that even holy beings can't break. Or at least have difficulty doing so." He chuckles and looks ahead of them. "I figured you were more of a free agent, rather than aligned with anyone."

“I _was_ , you are not mistaken in that.” Her grin seems to curl with pride at the mention of her title, and she chuckles to herself. “But, well, eventually I was found and given quite the offer, and I found I just couldn’t resist.” Her head swivels around, and any demon immediately within the area starts to duck their heads and walk notably faster than the regular pace they were walking before. She moves to pull up one of her sleeves, exposing an arm with jet-black feathers that slowly shift into grey scales that make up her hand, and she uses her other hand to give her wrist a tap. Eyes open up in a straight row amongst the dark hue of her pelt, flashing that same dark pupil and sickly pink sclera, climbing up from the edge of her wrist, to the edge of her elbow, until they simply vanish from sight.

"Hmm, that looks different than my own." He rubs his chin, then shrugs. "Well, I can only imagine I made the right choice, then. If someone can provide _you_ with an offer and actually go through with it, then it only stands that I'll be entertained as well."

“I hope you’ll find that what he provides to be satisfying, then.” She lets her sleeve drop, her arms moving to idly cross. “I am curious as to whether or not you’ll tell the girl of my second name, though. It’s not that I do not wish her to know, but I want to make sure to keep our relationship amicable, at the very least.”

"If you don't care either way, then I'll wait until it comes naturally. I don't care much for exposing other's secrets when I don't gain from them. Although...." He tilts his head yet again. "I'm unsure how she views angels, outside of Purges at least. I imagine she'll have more questions on theology given our earlier conversation."

“Hmm. She is a curious sort, isn’t she?” Her smile turns almost fond, and she chuckles a touch. “Makes you wonder what she could’ve done to end up down here.”

"If I'm being brutally honest, it could be nothing."

“Oh?” That gets her to tilt her head, her grin fading from sight. 

"Even those who find neutral ground end up down here, and those who don't start on neutral ground find themselves here more often than most. The demographics of Hell make no sense for a fair system." He shrugs again, saying it all like it was the simplest thing in the world. His grin remains the same.

“Hmmm. Rather chipper for such a harsh claim.”

"It doesn't bother me. Why should it?" He looks up at her inquisitively, amused by her comment. "I know I've sinned. I belong here. Everyone else? They can take it up with the angels if they so wish. Hell knows God won't answer them."

“Hmm. Interesting.” She tilts her head ever so slightly. “Then I suppose you’ll get along just swell with Pentious, then.”

"I certainly hope so! He seems like quite the man, and I haven't even met him yet." He laughs.

They round a corner, and it was at such a corner that Nora comes to a stop, taking out a key ring from a pocket somewhere inside her robes, moving to take a single brass key into her claws as she climbs the short cement steps to get to the oaken door. With a click and a creak, the door opens up, and she moves inside to hold the door open in invitation. “Please, do come in. Do you want anything to eat or drink in the meantime?“

"Oh, no, I'm good. Thank you, though." He follows her in, looking over the interior, glancing at their chandelier before moving to the paintings. "I'd hate to be a bother."

“Oh, it’s no issue at all. I tend to bake a lot and I find myself with more goodies than I know what to do with.” She shifts the door behind her, adjusting her hat for a moment before turning to watch him observe the decor.

"Oh, well, I don't like sweets anyways. Picky eater." He walks up to one of the paintings, standing at a respectable distance, and takes in the contrasts of dark and light. "Very baroque. I like it."

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to follow me.” She moves past him, down the hallway, past the stairs that ascend to the second floor, past an open doorway that leads into the kitchen, and to a heavily barred door that contains at least three locks, a chain, and even a deadbolt. She methodically undoes each and every lock, and with a gentle flourish, opens the door, revealing a long staircase that descends downwards, into the basement, a switch being flipped to turn on the lights below.

Alastor follows, humming a tune similar to the one that had been playing from the radio when Nora had arrived, and looks around as he walks with her. He waits as she unlocks the door, noting the amount of security to it, and then leans forward at the sight of the stairs. "Oh, how interesting. Secret entrance? Or is it just where you hide the bodies?"

“Would you believe me if I said both?” She starts to make her way down the stairs, and though logic should dictate that they creak and groan due to the strain of her weight, they made not even so much as a squeak.

"I'd perhaps believe you even more." His grin snaps sharper, and he follows, not wasting a second of thought for the broken logic. His heels click faintly against the surface.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, another light is flicked on, revealing a well-kept basement, with the exact same flower-based wallpaper that lined the walls up above, no hint of decay or mold or anything that one might expect from a basement that presumably wouldn’t be in use. The floor was a clean, polished stone, free of dirt or debris, the air smelled faintly of copper, the sharp aroma of cleansing alcohol, burning wax, and, just barely, brimstone. One of the walls held shelves lined with all sorts of odd knick-knacks, from jars filled with the floating preserved remains of eyeballs, hands, teeth, fins, etc, to the glowing, shimmering shapes of artifacts, tunes scrawled into seemingly insignificant objects, to the most misshapen of rocks and clay pots to guns, knives, even what looked like an untouched, perfectly preserved grenade. There was a noticeable gap between two shelves, big enough to provide room for an entirely new shelf, but was strangely bare and untouched. On another side of the wall was that of a large table, covered with open books and tomes, half-open inkwells with feather quills still sitting within, the wall itself covered with pages pinned there by tacks and strings, all in a rather confusing array. There was an open door that was much more dimly lit than the others, and from what Alastor can see within that darkness, was a massive table, metallic, a cold, emotionless silver in hue, it’s edges dried with the crimson tone of blood.

On the opposite end of the wall was what appeared to be multiple pairs of wings, all of them stretched out to their full length, arranged in pairs of three, pinned to the the wall like trophies. They were a brilliant silver hue, resplendent, completely and utterly flawless, tip to tip, except for the faint splotch of crimson that dotted their surfaces from the very edge of the wings, the barest bit of raw, pearly white bone sticking out from the perfect mold of feathers. Just above those wings was another object, placed on it’s own ornate shelf. A mask, blackened like the hue of the proverbial abyss, with nary a crack or chip to it’s name, only marred by the sheer, sickeningly white hue of the face, curled into a nasty grin of bloodlust, of sadism and carnage. From the way it was angled, it almost seemed to be staring at them.

“My dear lord....” Alastor could only feel his grin widening, unable to keep from taking a few steps toward the wings regardless of the direction Nora moved. Everything else in the room was interesting, sure, but _angel wings?_ Hung like hunting trophies, like the divine beasts that came to slaughter them were merely animals to be presented as art. There was a time, a long while ago, when some hapless fool thought to do something with _his_ head, given the antlers. He could understand the urge. But angels in that place? He should have been terrified, knowing that Nora so readily, so easily took trophies from such kills, but all he could feel was giddy. He could see it all, the carnage she had waded through. An angel being killed was not something the others took lightly, so it wasn’t as if Nora could have simply killed an angel and taken the time to properly saw the wings away. One single set of wings would account for at least a half dozen angels dead. Probably more.

“Impressed, I take it?” He can practically hear the pride in her voice as she walks closer to observe her bloodied trophy.

“I’d be a fool if I wasn’t.” He steps closer with her. “Do you keep count of how many you’ve killed?”

“Hmm...I try. From what I can recall, _this_ one was one I had fought back around...1940. It was quite the sadistic brute, practically _soiled_ in blood by the time I had witnessed it soaring through the air. Out of all of them, it seemed to cackle the loudest.” Her grin practically curls, her teeth almost seeming to grow bigger, sharper, within her beak. “It lasted the longest, and in the end, my hooks ripped their wings right off their back.” She waves a hand, idly, and from within her palm comes the hissing, burning smell of hellfire and brimstone, a bright, cherry-red chain clutched tight in her claws, steaming and sizzling fiercely, thick tendrils of smoke rising from it’s frame, but not seeming to burn her in the least. A massive hook dangled in the air precariously from the end of such a chain, stained with blood, as thick as Alastor’s whole arm, curved to a vicious point.

He shivers slightly at the feeling of magic radiating from it and keeps his eyes on the hook. “That truly is lovely. I can almost see it happening right now.” He pries his eyes away from the weapon and back to the wall. “This might be a bit forward of me, but I have some past history with hunting trophies. If you ever need help polishing or setting or what have you, don’t hesitate to call.” One of the wings hangs the slightest bit crooked from the rest and he has to hold himself from correcting it, though his gaze lingers on it for a short moment.

She chuckles, shaking her head in amusement, before flicking her wrist, the chain vanishing with a puff of bright orange embers. “I don’t take very many trophies often. As you can imagine, it’s quite difficult to as so much get one of their wings, much less a whole set, nevermind a _body._ But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Of course, of course.” He nods vigorously. “The offer still stands, in any case. You never know.” He rocks back on his heels. “I am rather intrigued, though. When other demons kill an angel, they usually tear it apart and burn it to cinders, or something more gruesome. I’ve never quite thought of anyone keeping _trophies_ of them.”

“I’m sure they do the same to us when they take to the streets and slaughter us in droves. Why not give them a little touch of payback?” Her grin gains a sadistic edge to it. “Though what I wouldn’t give to have a full, intact _corpse._ The possibilities alone when it comes to the magic contained in their bodies would be of immense magnitude.”

“Very true. Hmm. I wonder if the feathers have anything left? I mean, they are, supposedly, one of the more relevant parts of the angel, though it’s tough to say if it’s merely a matter of status or actual magic. Hmm...” He narrows his eyes. “Angelic magic. Quite the conundrum.”

“I’m not certain myself. That’s the tricky thing with hellfire, you see. It can kill angels right back, just like how they can kill us with their blades. The trouble is, it also happens to contain the exact same necrosis effect. Meaning that most corpses are nothing more than puddles of melting slop by the time they hit the ground.” She shakes her head and sighs. “It’s terribly difficult to work with if you want to try and dissect something, let me assure you.”

“I’ve seen a corpse of theirs before. They’re mighty protective of them.” Alastor recalls bloodied streets, flickering behind the mask, and then a flock of other angels descending on the body like a sea of vultures. He never did see what they did with it afterwards.

“Have you now?” That gets her to tilt her head. “What were _you_ doing out in the streets during a Purge?”

“Shopping.” He grins at her, all teeth and gums.

Her eyes can’t seem to narrow, but the grin she gives him right back seems to indicate that they would. “Very funny.”

He shrugs. “Plenty of people shop during Purges. Lower prices, you know.”

“I suppose demons being slaughtered left and right would free up waiting lines.” She moves to walk toward another side of the wall, one that contained that of the shelves assorted with jars and artifacts. She reaches up to push aside a jar that appeared to have a whole heart placed within it, and reveals a small keypad imbedded into the wall, with dull white buttons that seemed to be blank. There was a soft few beeps as she presses in some kind of code, and within an instant, that wall that had been suspiciously bare of anything at all had suddenly split down the middle, revealing the wallpaper placed on top of it to not be paper at all, but paint. The split slowly widens, and the wall soon turns into a double-paired door that swings open to reveal a vastly different section of the basement, stretching into a vast hallways, the floor lined with a intricately woven carpet, pink, lined with tassels of gold, the walls etched with a blackened pattern that resembles that of snake scales, the architecture curving into the ceiling, creating a tunnel-like appearance.

“Ah, yes, the secret passage. Classic.” Alastor joins her, managing to catch the last two buttons of the code and nothing else. He raises a brow at the decor, though he can’t say he’s particularly surprised by it. “Definitely seems like the right place. Hmm. Hidden underground passageways for the rather secretive inventor overlord. He has quite the aesthetic, doesn’t he?”

“Indeed he does. Chances are, if he builds something a certain way, it’s either because he sees it as potential for a weapon, or simply because he revels in the dramatics of how it functions.” She makes her way across the room and steps into the hallway, her stark black robes and bleached white mask somehow both contrasting and complimenting the layout of the hallway perfectly. “Come along now. We still have some ways to go.”

“Lead the way.” He follows, glancing at the carpet as his heels stop clicking against the floor. “That sounds like what I know of him. Very dramatic, bombastic, flashy, but also sinister.”

“If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s planning your demise down to the very last step.” She slowly leads him down, down, down the hallway, one that seems to stretch and turn and curve in various, random places, and every single time they pass a curve, leading them to turn left or right, Alastor swears he starts to feel the ground beneath his feet turn _slanted._ Barely, not nearly enough to get him to stumble or fall, but just enough to notice.

“So he’s the organized type?” He looks over the ceiling again, which continues to arch overhead without flattening. “Does he do lists or cork boards?”

“Hmm...Neither. Last time I checked, he stores all the information around Hell he can gather into these...computer systems, I believe they call them up on the surface...”

“Computer systems?” He tilts his head at her. “Not sure I know what those are, aside from being connected to television in some way.” His brows furrow. “The names Hazen and Butch just came to me. Huh.”

“I can’t make hide nor hair of it either. All I know is, he can use them, and he uses them with quite the efficiency. Essentially makes telegraphs and morse code look like a turtle in the middle of winter.” 

Just up ahead, there appears to be a set of stairs that lead into a much wider area, and just at it comes into view, Alastor feels the slanted floor beneath his shoes gently settle back into a more flat surface.

“Telegraphs are a bit outdated, I suppose.” He beams at seeing the stairs and folds his arms behind his back again. “I take it we’re here?”

“How mad would you be if I said no?” She glances back to flash a cheeky grin towards him, just as they reach the top of the stairs, to reveal that the tunnel’s end opens up into a much wider room, the floors a sparkling black tile, as were the walls, and the only thing that appeared to be contained within said room was a rather large vehicle, resting within the grooves of a train track that fed into what appeared to be yet another tunnel. Said vehicle happened to resemble that of a train car, but somehow was completely separate from any kind of train engine, it’s walls painted with the same snake-like pattern, except this time a brimming gold with a black outline, the wheels lining the bottom of the car looking more like cogs or gears, with that same pink eye built into the center, staring sightlessly into nothing.

“Oh, please, you’re _killing_ me.” Alastor swoons, one hand gripping the V of his vest, and then trots up the last few steps. “Don’t worry, doll, I’ll....” His brows raise at the sight of the train-but-not-train. “...definitely be able to hold myself together. What in the world...?” He passes her to get closer, keeping a respectable distance per usual, and starts darting his eye this way and that over the vehicle. The tracks weren’t even the same as train tracks, not upon closer inspection at least. “And what would he call this magnificent little thing?”

“I believe it’s a “metro tunnel” as he likes to call it. Apparently it was a type of underground tunnel system that was made in London back when he was still alive, and he decided to put his own spin on it. It’s basically a train, but with only one car and it moves through a series of tunnels lined with tracks to reach _other_ underground tunnels.” She steps up next to him, tilting her head slightly. “I’m not sure myself how it works.”

“It... almost reminds me of streetcars from back in New Orleans, only underground.” He puts his hands on his hips. “I have heard a few people talk about subways from up north. New York and that. Definitely lets you avoid pedestrian traffic.” He gives Nora a questionable look. “Does Lucifer know about this? I feel like he’d have thought to install something like this for all of Hell by now.”

She’s silent for a moment, tilting her head to the side. “I don’t believe so. No one of Lucifer’s Court knows, anyhow. Even if they found these tunnels, there’s no way they could find a way to activate them. Only the marks can do that.” She pushes up her sleeve to show off the eyes of the serpent imbedded in her feathers as an example.

“Huh. Rather ingenious. Does that mean there’s magic imbued in the car?”

“Indeed.” She nods, before moving to step up toward the doors, grabbing a handle on the side and wrenching them to the side, causing the door to crumple inward, to fold in on itself, providing an opening. She slips inside the car, to which it gives a soft shudder from the sudden weight, and she offers a hand. “Well? Shall we?”

“I dare say we shall.” He takes her hand and steps inside, then immediately pulls his hand back and moves to investigate the inside of the vehicle.

It had plenty of room for the both of them to move around, the walls lined with large swathes of glass to act as windows, the same pink carpet that lined the tunnel before also lining the floor, and while there was a back door for what appeared to be some kind of railing at the rear end, there strangely was no cockpit of any kind. Just the front window of the cart and a black button that was perched atop a pedestal just below it. For seats, there were long leather couches that lined the sides, sitting right below the windows, and there also were poles that reached low to grab onto if one chose to stand. Nora makes her way to the front of the car, pauses, before rolling up her sleeve to expose the eyes of the snake mark on her wrist, lowering the first eyeball of the snake to the button, her wrist angled downwards. For a moment, nothing happens, and then the button on the pedestal shifts before opening up into another eyeball, one that seemed to take a moment to blink, just before a beam of solid red light slowly emerges from it’s pupil, to envelop the other eye that stares right back, unblinking. It only seemed to last a second before the eye on the pedestal blinked again, the mysterious light flickering out as quickly as it came, pupil flashing a bright green color, just as the mechanisms beneath their feet began to lurch and groan as they started up.

“Huh. Red.” Alastor easily brings a hand up to grab a pole as the vehicle jolts, then shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts. The color of magic meant basically nothing in Hell. Everyone had different ones, some had none, some had multiple colors. His wrist itches as his mind drifts back to the snake, the animated not-animal not-tattoo phantasm of pure black shadows. Shadow manipulation was not particularly a common thing. He stretches and walks down to the other end of the car, peering out the windows to see if he could catch anything, and then moving to sit in one of the sofas when he sees nothing but metal girders and wall.

Nora too moves to sit down on one of the sofas as well, her arms crossing as she tugs her sleeve back down, her shoulders seeming to quiver as she chuckles to herself. “Still excited? Or has the long trek worn it down a touch?”

“Oh, I’m plenty excited.” He peels his lips back again to show his teeth. “Merely holding it for the real show. That and I’ve never been a fan of vehicles. Much more to do and see while walking. Taxi drivers never play the right music. This one doesn’t even have any. Yet. Maybe I’ll give him a few ideas.”

“Heheh. Maybe. I’d be surprised if you do; I don’t recall much of anyone giving _him_ ideas, much less him actually listening.”

“That’s a shame. I find you do your best work when others criticize you.” He shrugs, keeps his eyes on the window across from him to look for anything different.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I was never one to question, honestly.” She follows his gaze, and she chuckles after a moment. “Just wait a moment. Soon you’ll be able to see all the other tunnels he’s made.”

“I hope so.” He drops his head back for a moment, then exhales and straightens. “I hate waiting. It’s so bothersome.”

“You won’t have to wait long. Trust me, it only seems long because of the fact that this type of system isn’t in your house and you had to walk to get here.” 

There was a flash of something in the window across from him, a bend to the walls that made it look as if they were curving inward. It wasn’t until he saw it again did he realize that it was the branching point of another tunnel. And another. And another. And another. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, times he sees another diverting branch, another optional pathway, and the numbers just kept climbing.

“Oh... That is... extensive.” He blinks, momentarily thrown off by the number of rails. There must’ve been dozens of entrances into this place around Hell, hidden by Sir Pentious and his various minions. He vaguely wondered how long it had taken to build such a thing. How many hands had worked to make it happen - or machines, as the case may be. He clasps his hands together over his knee. “Huh.”

“Fun fact about Pentious’s reach; it doesn’t stop at the West side.” Her grin practically curls, her eyes turning the slightest bit brighter. “He has eyes everywhere, shall we say.”

"In all his equipment, I know." He raised a brow, still considering the rails as he turns to look at her. "He does play by mob rules, which I'm somewhat surprised about. He keeps all his affiliates secret rather than flaunting them about. Would have thought he'd want to show off more."

“I thought the same thing too, but no. He prefers to keep everything confidential, and for good reason. Reasons I am forbidden to speak of, as of right now.”

"Hmm. I'll keep that in mind." He fidgets with his sleeves, undoing the cuffs and rolling them halfway up his arm.

Nora lifts her head upwards, towards the massive window of the front of the car, and starts to grin. “Ah, here we go. Almost there. See? Took no time at all.”

"Oh?" He straights a wrinkle in his shirt before he looks up. At first, there's nothing, only the dimly lit tracks and walls, and a speck of light at the end. Alastor leans an elbow on the cushions behind him, head resting on his knuckles, and waits for the light to come.

A sense of shock courses down his spine as the thrumming of the car cuts away, the rail continuing while the walls abruptly end, leaving them suspended with perhaps ten feet of concrete on either side of the tracks. An artificial chasm drops below them, letting him see specks of people moving above on layers of building below him as well as above. A few flying demons swoop about the tracks, either going form one place to another or performing some arcane task. And the other tracks. Each of them looked like bridges with how the supports sunk down into the base, intricate carvings detailing a gloating, mirthful Pentious, sharp fangs, flared hood, and all. Some led to the lower levels, which he couldn't quite make out from where he sat. Alastor slowly stands from his seat and walks to the front, pressing a hand to the glass and following one of the other tracks. They looked tiny at this distance, but the thin middle, the appendages along the body and the tail, the glass which shone under industrial lights.... He recalls the broadcast he made on Pentious' most recent show of force. The planes. There had been maybe a dozen that day. But here....

"Definitely beats the ol' chopper squad."

He can hear Nora let out a bout of laughter, soft and discreet, but there all the same as she too stands up to join him, her grin wide and her teeth gleaming in the light. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

"Where does it _end!"_ He tilts back from the glass, momentarily defying gravity by not falling over, arms pointing at the scene before them. "I - what - _where_ did he get all this and how did he keep anyone from noticing!?" The next moment he's almost pressing his nose to the glass. "Oh my goodness, this is simply _astronomical._ There's so many _people._ Dear _Lord."_

“He has eyes everywhere, my friend. And I don’t mean the eyes on his inventions.”

“Even then, this is just-” Walls obscure his vision as the car enters another short tunnel. His expression flattens in annoyance. “Concrete.”

The wall peels away again, showing a station of sort, other cars pulling in on other tracks and people getting on and off as needed. Alastor straightens himself, watching it all as their car slows to a stop.

Nora herself chuckles again, taking a moment to adjust her hat. “What if I told you that was only one level of the entire facility? That was just the hangar bay.” She moves to pull the door to the side yet again, slipping out and stepping down onto the tile, the air instantly being filled with the chatter of other demons, the sound of chugging cogs and gears as cars moving in and out out the station’s many railways.

Alastor quickly follows her. “Just one level? You mean below all _that,_ there’s _another one?_ And possibly more?” He brings his hands to his cheeks, sliding them down comically. “How is this man so _brilliant?_ I knew he was _smart,_ but to have actually executed all of this, and in such secrecy...” He shakes his head.

“Hehehe. Shhh.” She lifts a finger to her beak. “Wouldn’t want Pentious overhearing you.” Her tone suggests it’s all in jest, before turning around and scanning the area, overcrowded with demons of all shapes, sizes, and eras, many of them immediately bustling to and fro in an effort to get to an elevator, or escalator, or simply just taking the stairs, all seeming to rush to be _somewhere._ “Come with me, try not to get lost.”

“Will do.” He tucks his arms behind him, watching her instead of all the other people around them. He had a feeling he’d actually have to try _not_ getting lost down here, and he did not want to give Pentious a bad first impression. “Where precisely will we be going?”

“Pentious gave me orders to take you to one of the lower levels, in Sector E. It happens to be right next to Sector F, where he will engage you in a series of tests. Nothing terribly invasive, I assure you; it’s merely protocol to determine how useful you can be in the job he assigns you.”

“Usefulness? Hm.” Alastor can’t say he’s terribly surprised. Any proper leader would want to know their people’s skills. And if these tests pertained to his ability to _kill,_ well, he’s certain he’ll pass with flying colors. He shrugs. “Fair enough. I’m assuming I should be going blind into these tests?”

“Indeed.” She nods, slowly making her way over to an elevator, one that seemed to have a bit of a line that was slowly shrinking bit by bit. “That way you don’t attempt to cheat somehow, not that I’m saying you would.”

“I can only imagine _someone’s_ tried.” He sticks close to her, skillfully rounding people without touching them despite the thickening crowd.

“Oh, they have, and it resulted in their deaths. Pentious isn’t exactly keen on the existence of this place being revealed to anyone that could be seen as a risk.” She watches as the elevator doors open yet again, and despite the fact that many other demons are surrounding her, none make a move to enter the elevator after she steps through, reaching over to press a button labeled E. There were at least a dozen other buttons lining the wall, labeled from A to L.

Alastor steps in and finds a corner where her feathers aren’t in range of him. “I imagine he hopes to fit the entire alphabet on that someday soon?”

“Heheh. Perhaps. He never told me the reason why he labels them like that. Maybe you can ask him.”

“Warehouses tend to be assigned letters, aren’t they? Could be something to do with that.”

She shrugs idly, as the doors close and the elevator begins to lower, windows revealed to be on the sides, allowing Alastor to watch his surroundings as they descended.

“Hmm.” He keeps an eye outside when he hears no response, seeing other elevators stopping and starting and moving up and down. Everything down here was meant to be seen. Meant to impress. Meant to continue to impress. He wonders if Pentious someday hopes to bring the other Overlords down here, if only to brag. His persona on TV would say he’d do something like that. He watches as the windows pass through the floor, surrounded by nothing but concrete for a moment before opening up to reveal the sight of an entire area down below, filled to the brim with people as they bustled about in front of rows upon rows of machinery, of odd glass screens and blinking buttons and switches, a more massive screen looming in front of them all, displaying images of mechanisms and faces that seemed to flash all too fast for him to fully recognize. People were sitting in front of these odd mechanisms, some talking into microphones, others wearing headphones and frantically scrawling out words on pieces of paper, all of them seemed fully intent on keeping the more massive screen running. 

“Huh.” He has no idea what the screen was for, or anything that flashes across it, but the people tinkering with the buttons and switches remind him vaguely of a proper, full radio station, with multiple rooms and communication between each and the runners trying to put out little electrical fires every other week without being caught on mic. The same kind of energy hovers about it, but more focused, more synchronized, and with less fire. “Looks like an important place.”

“That’s how Pentious keeps up to date with all of what’s going on in Hell. The scout ships gain all the knowledge they can from the sky, the people working up on the streets report in through magic or other means, and the technicians do their best to...I think the term was _upload_...all of it into the main computer.”

“Fascinating.” He squints at the screen, trying to make out any of the faces that pop up on it.

There was the occasional flicker of a few faces he knew, one of them being Rosie or Valentino, but aside from that, most of the faces seemed to be demons that he couldn’t quote recall. It was strange, how some of them looked a touch familiar, almost, but not in any way that he could immediately think of. “Hm. Well, I hope I never step foot in the place. Seems boring to sit at a desk and relay information all the time.” Being a radio host was different.

Nothing on the following few levels are particularly eye catching. One stops only a few feet in with a metal wall and a door with the words “NO GUNS THIS SIDE” plastered across it. Some kind of weapons testing area. Another stretches for quite some distance with aisles of construction equipment and metals and other things Alastor could care less about. Floor D gave the appearance of a sort of hospital, but he also saw one of the doctors handing out tranq guns to a group of demons dressed in all black, so he couldn’t quite get a proper read on the place. He hums a song the entire way to Floor E.

When the doors opened, the first thing that immediately came to mind was the scent of smoke, of sharp metal and oil, and his eyes were greeted to the sight of sparking lights and tongues of flame a good distance away.

The floor seemed to be made up of two different sections, one of which being a walkway, where crowds of demons were bustling about in an effort to find their posts, most of them carrying toolboxes or blowtorches or blueprints, while others were wiping their faces of soot and grime. Many of them appeared to be different shapes of sizes, and they all wore some series of protective layering, including rubber gloves, goggles, and construction helmets. There was also a series of massive rooms cut off from the rest of the room by thick panels of glass, only accessed by climbing down a set of stairs on both the left and ride sides and entering through thick metal doors covered with caution tape. Each room, from what he could see, was filled to the brim with workers running back and forth across bridges, raising themselves up and down with cranes, mechanical anchors keeping various projects dangling in the air as sparks flew and hammers crashed, half-built frames that were slowly being outfitted with metal panes, wires being slowly distributed and flares of electricity sparking up as switches were flipped. There were the outlines of blimps being slowly coated with metal armor, there were inner mechanisms of canons laid bare with their cores lighting up with flares of pink light, there were massive lumps of cogs and gears that he couldn’t even begin to describe. 

It was massive, it was archaic, in every meaning of the word, and somehow, it all felt so _impressive._

“Er, is this-” He can’t even hear himself over the sound of hammers crashing on metal, and he puts a hand on Nora’s arm to get her attention. “Is this really the right place? It hardly seems like an interview scene!”

Her expression is that of heavy amusement, and she actually laughs, her head tilting back as her beak opens, and it’s quite an eerie sight given her mask can’t really change expressions. She finally nods and moves to keep a hand on Alastor’s back to help guide him through the crowd, raising her voice to be heard. “No no! This is Sector E! Pentious will be testing you in Sector F! He told me that he would be down in E and that I should bring you to him when we get here!”

“Oh! Right.” Alastor twitches slightly as she puts her hand on his back, but forces himself to relax and move with her. There’s more of that organized chaos that is so frequently seen throughout Hell, and while he would usually revel in it, the sounds bouncing all around the room keep him from really enjoying the scene. He still manages to weave about the workers, ducking as something is thrown just over his head from behind.

Construction sites. In all his life, he had never been on any kind of construction site.

He feels severely out of place.

The two slowly make their way through the crowd, Nora’s head swiveling this way and that in an effort to locate something, before she finally steers Alastor in a direction toward one of the massive construction rooms, letting herself lean on the railing that lines walkway just before the gap that’s covered by glass. Within the massive cut off room, there looked to be a half-finished airship, a noticeably _bigger_ model than the one he had seen floating above the city just days before, sparks flying all around as demons of all shapes and sizes take to the war machine’s metal hide with blowtorches, melding the metal onto the frames. “Ok! Sir Pentious should be in this one! Can you see him?!”

“ _See_ him!?” He stares at her for a moment before gripping the railing and peering down at the airship with her. It was truly massive. The usual airships could take out a skyscraper if they wanted to, but this one could probably demolish three if they were lined side by side. His eyes dart about, looking at the ground around the ship, and then at its skeleton. Pentious was an inventor, that much he was certain of. He made everything he could, or at least added his own touch before it was finished in his name. It stands to reason he’d _personally_ work on his own new airship. “Could he be on the other side!?”

“Maybe!” She looks up from where she is on the railing, moves to tap the shoulder of a demon that was walking by, and points toward the glass. “Sir Pentious is in there! Could you please go in and tell him that I have arrived with the new recruit?!”

The demon, resembling that of some kind of pig, wearing a pair of goggles around his head, a metal beam balanced on one shoulder, nods as he uses his other hand to adjust his helmet, the black hue of his own snake mark just barely peeking out from the edge of his rubber gloves. “Yeah, jus’ gimme a sec!” He moves down toward the nearest staircase, slowly waddling down towards the thick metal door, pushing in another code on a nearby keypad, causing the door to hiss as it opens up, rising upwards from the floor and dropping down again after he enters.

“Quite a bit of security down here!” It’s something obvious to point out, but pointing it out makes him feel a bit more at ease nonetheless. After a moment, he turns his gaze back to the ship, scanning it for the snake overlord himself. “You could say he runs a _tight ship!”_

_“What?!”_

“Nothing!” He chuckles to himself, waving a hand dismissively.

Nora’s eyes move back down toward the glass below, and after a moment, so does his own. There was nothing, not a single sight of that familiar serpentine form, just flashes of sparks and flame and...Wait. There was something there. There was something dangling from the bottom of the ship, across it’s underbelly, and sparks were flying there too. He could see a flash of yellow, slowly crawling up and down the exposed beams of the ship’s bottom, faintly, but there all the same. Then it paused, stopped dead in it’s tracks, before slowly starting to crawl upwards, across the thin beams of the ship’s utterly massive frame, not slipping up even once.

Alastor waits a moment, checking with himself that _yes,_ that actually _is_ the Overlord climbing about the carcass of an airship (is it really a carcass if it technically hasn’t been born yet - or _borne_ rather - but at the same time, they do call the beams the skeleton and ribs) without a care in the world. Then he knocks his knuckles against Nora and briefly points to the bottom of the structure. “He’s below! Coming up!”

“Ah, yes! I see him now! Good eye!”

Slowly, the figure of Sir Pentious finally makes it’s way around to the visible side of the ship, reaching up and somehow managing to hoist himself up onto a bridge, his figure a tad more visible, allowing Alastor to see the length of those twisting coils, the flare of his hood as it’s yellow hue slowly fell away into the cover of black. He also didn’t seem to be wearing his typical suit and top hat, and instead seemed to wear something that looked much more akin to a stained coat, a smock, covered in what looked to be soot and splashes of long-dried oil splotches, leaving his head bare and his normally posh demeanor replaced with that of sweat and grime. He makes his way across one of the bridges and seems to slip out of sight, possibly into a room that he wasn’t aware was there.

“Huh.” His head tilts as he continues to watch the door Sir Pentious had vanished behind. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without his hat before. How very strange.” He turns to Nora. “Should we stay here!?”

She shakes her head and pulls away from the railing. “No! I know where he’s going! Follow me!” She turns to start walking her way through the crowd again, slowly walking him past row upon row of more of those massive, sprawling rooms, until finally, they reach a massive set of stairs and begin to descend downwards. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the massive cacophony of workers and mechanical crashing fades away, and Alastor finds his ears ringing ever so slightly, though thankful that he no longer has to shout at the top of his lungs in order to be heard. He found that, unlike the grime and grit that seemed to permeate the workers of the construction sites, the ones that passed them by as they walked down the stairs were much more clean, much more oriented towards a more militant type of profession, judging by the uniforms they wore and the way they walked, and soon, when they reach the bottom of the stairs, they find themselves standing in a rather clean area, one that almost looked akin to a lobby, with various doors branching off to various areas, demons of all sorts bustling in and out at random intervals. There were benches to sit upon, there were potted plants in the corners (some of them notably muzzled due to the fangs sticking out from it’s maw), and when one of the doors opened to let a group of demons inside, Alastor swore he caught the scent of some kind of stew being made.

Alastor slides a hand over his ears and let's them shiver, trying to knock the ringing out of them as he takes everything in. A fleeting thought of having to wear a uniform crosses his mind and he squashes it instantly, unwilling to bitter himself before meeting Pentious in person. He ignores a few looks sent their way and looks up at Nora. "So where are we now, my dear?"

“Just at the beginning portion of Sector F. It’s a touch smaller than the others, since it’s meant to split into different sections, depending on where you want to go.” She points to a door on his left. “That, I believe are the dorm halls.” She points to the one on her right. “That’s the mess hall.” Then to the one in front of her. “And those are the testing facilities. They tend to double as facilities to train soldiers, so it’s kept down here.”

"Ah, makes sense." Dorms. So people were _sleeping_ down here. _Living_ down here. "Very efficient, in my opinion."

“Glad to hear you think so. Makes the act of calling your armies in the times of war run so much more ssssmoothly. I already have so many people spread throughout the City as is; if every single one of my soldiers were scattered to the wind, why, I’d never get anything done.”

All the soldiers turn their heads upon hearing that voice, and Nora’s head swivels around to face behind her, a grin growing on her face. “Good afternoon, Sir Pentious. I have brought the new recruit, just like you said.”

Alastor startles for just a moment, only noticeable in how his shoulders tighten ever so slightly, and he turns to face the Overlord. The demon stands just a few feet from them, an insidious smirk on his face, now wearing his usual attire of a charcoal suit with yellow gold pinstripes. His top hat sits pristinely on his head, grinning widely and narrowing it's eye on him.

His own grin jumps up a level, jovial, showing all his teeth without being too much, and he lets himself chuckle; best to start getting acquainted immediately. "I can only imagine how much work it takes to keep a business as big as yours running." He offers his hand to Pentious. "Alastor, 1933. I know we've met already, but it's so much nicer meeting in person, isn't it?"

“I must admit that it is. Certainly much better than looking through the single eye of a girl that’s only two feet tall, anyways. Her depth perception was atrocioussss.” He moves to take his hand to give it a shake. “So, Alassstor, what do you think of my base of operations? Not many new recruits get a chance to ssssee it right off the bat like you have, so I’m quite eager to know what you think.”

"Oh, really?" His brows quirk pleasantly, grin widening an inch in a show of glee and thankful respect. His hand slides back after a modest amount of time. "I have to admit I'm quite thoroughly impressed. I feel like I've walked into one of those science fiction novels and can't find my way out." He chuckles. "I truly have no idea how you've managed to keep this all quiet from the public - especially Sector E, was it? Quite the loud one, if I say so myself. Haha!" Alastor's right hand gestures vaguely as he talks, coming to a rest near his shoulder, just shy of touching his bowtie. The both of them wore the same brand. How intriguing.

Pentious’s own grin, already displaying all of his teeth, only seems to widen even more, and his arms cross smugly, the tip of his tail lifting up from the floor to idly flick. “Quite sssimple, really; everyone is so concerned over what’s happening on the surface of Hell that no one ever bothers to think of what might happen underground. It also helps that the actual base isn’t actually anywhere near the City at all.” He points a claw toward the ceiling. “We’re about...at least three miles outside the city limits of the West sssside, in this particular Sector, anyway.”

"Ooh, that's a good move, stationing yourself so far away." He holds his chin, glancing aside quickly. "Those, er, trams do quite a bit of work. I figured we went far, but not _so_ far."

“Oh no, the trams drop you off at the sssssurface level of the entire base, since it wouldn’t exactly be the best of underground operations if we merely jussst dug straight down. _That_ is a recipe for disssassster. No, no, no-” His outstretched claw gives a bit of a wiggle before he retracts it, moving to adjust his tie, grin starting to grow a smug tone. “-I’m not about to let my entire base of operations be buried by as ssssomething as pathetically simple as a cave in. How it works is that the deeper in the base you go, the further away you get from the City.”

"Oh, I see, I see!" That explains how some of the walls seemed to get closer or farther away during the elevator ride. Though it hadn't _felt_ slanted at all. He'd have to see if he notices anything when he goes back up. "I was wondering about that. Not only just keeping it all together, but the making of it would have been next to impossible. Stacks, though..." He nods a few times. "Ingenious, really."

The hair that makes up his hood seems to ruffle slightly, twitching, as if suppressing the urge to let it snap back up, and his eyes narrow with mirth. “Why thank you. Nice to know that sssomeone can appreciate all the hard work that I went through to make this place a reality. You’ll never guesss how long it took.”

Alastor let's his smile rest, close lipped, as he talks, and then hums lightly. "I'm not well versed in construction, but I can definitely guess _a long time._ Decades, maybe? I'm not sure what you work with down here, actually."

“Would you believe me if I said about 5 years?”

"Fi-" His eyes snap wide open and he can't help but lean in closer to him. " _Five_ years? Only five? One human hand, five?" He wiggles his fingers in example. He stares for a moment, then narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. One ruby tipped finger taps his lips. " _You_ could do it. You'd be crazy enough to try and more than determined to go through with it."

“I could, and so I did, and here you are sssstanding amongst the results.” His lips finally move to cover up his teeth, and he chuckles softly, the tip of his tail giving another flick. “I really do hope this isn’t some form of flattery to try and tempt me into bypassssing the testsss.”

"Oh, please." Alastor leans back, waving a hand. "I'd gladly go through tests any day; it's been so boring in Hell lately, I swear. No, dear, all of this is genuine, I promise." Hmm. He'd have to figure out his track record for promises sometime. Though he did have no intention of weasling his way out of the tests.

“Hmm. Good.” Pentious nods softly, his eyes narrowing with a pleased look in his gaze. 

Nora clears her throat softly. “We should probably start making our way to the testing chambers, Sir.”

Pentious’s eyes flick to Nora for a moment before he nods. “Ah, yes, of course. Thank you, Nora.” He slithers his way between the two in order to make his way toward the door on the opposite end of the room, the frame of his snake-half slowly swaying side to side as he moves in a steady motion, a steady rhythm, grabbing the handle to the door and pulling it open, making his way inside. “Come along, the both of you, please.”

Alastor follows immediately, no questions asked, careful to stay back a respectable distance to keep from stepping or tripping over his tail. He flashes a quick smile at Nora before focusing back on Pentious, following him inside the room. "I am rather curious what exactly you'll be testing me on. I forgot to bring a pencil, after all."

“Hah!” Pentious actually lets out a bit of a laugh at that, a short one, his hood quivering slightly. “As if! No, no, thisss test will be a way of determining how usssseful you can be in terms of combat, of battle, and possibly even more, in order to figure out just where you’ll bessst fit in amongst my militia. Normally I run new recruits under a more sssstandardized test, but considering your list of sssskillsets that you made me so aware of yesterday, I think I’ll make an exception for you. Jusssst this once, mind you.” He holds up a claw. “Don’t expect me to be so lax once you actually begin to work here. After that, you’ll have to operate jussssst like everyone else, and try to work hard enough to push yourself up to higher rankings.”

Alastor grins as his little joke gets a small laugh from the man. Thank goodness Sir Pentious would take a joke or two. Or three, hopefully. He nods at the comments. "Of course! I may have a few questions about that, but they can wait for now. No need to be too hasty about things, right?" He glances about the room they had entered.

“Certainly not!” 

It looked to be yet another long corridor-like hallway, complete with large panels of glass that acted as windows down below, windows that revealed rooms much like the ones in the previous sector, sectioned off from the rest of the hall and only accessible through thick metal doors. However, unlike the rooms in Sector E, these ones seemed much more oriented towards soldier routine; he could see what looked to be troops running around a massive track down below in one room, jumping over hurdles and obstacles set up to impede their progress, while in another there was a massive firing range, complete with test dummies stationed against one side of the wall with soldiers standing at the other, guns of all manners of shapes and sizes being fired upon them, some firing bullets while some seemed to be firing thin beams of pure light that had a tendency to scorch the walls behind the dummies and leave behind a melted warp of metal and blackened soot. There was another room filled to the brim with soldiers paired off into pairs of two, each of them working to best the other in vicious battles of hand to hand, or for some, sword to sword, wielding blades shaped into that of broadswords, though rather than made up of steel, they appeared to be made up of solid masses of pure energy, crackling and flaring with tongues of lightning every time the blades so much as scraped against each other. And yet even another room was filled with demons of a more arcane sort, an instructor making intricate motions with their hands to produce a certain type of spell, and having their students parrot it back, while another was off to the side, drawing intricate runes across the ground and having their students watch as the embers of hellfire began to rise up from the chalk.

"Very impressive." Alastor peers at the person drawing runes, wishing he could get a closer look at what alphabet, if any, they were using. He wouldn't be surprised if someone else in Hell had figured to continue using voodoo down here, but he hadn't actually _met_ anyone who had done so. He glances at Pentious through the reflection in the glass. "So everyone who enters work with you gets a specialized job?"

“Indeed. Technically, it’s specialized depending on how precise their skills are, as well as what skills they possess at all. I have demons of all shapes, sizes, and eras under my thumb, which means no shortage of options on how they can operate within those to the besssst of their abilities. The ones that know how to fight or to kill become soldiers, the ones that know construction and engineering aid me in building my weapons and ships, and so on and so forth.” He turns to glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Your tesssst will be a slight different from the usual one I give to potential soldierssss. Think of it as a way to determine how useful you can be to me in the future.”

Alastor catches his gaze in the glass. "I am a little curious about that. Not the usefulness - that makes sense. But it seems like you've never had anyone quite like myself before. Are serial killers really that hard to find in Hell? Or maybe more difficult to attract?"

Something in Pentious’s gaze seems to grow a touch, some sort of mirth that he couldn’t quite place or explain, and he chuckles. “In my experience, they certainly can be. They either lose the perverted thrill they obtained from killing others when they learn murder isn’t exactly desssspised in the depths of Hell, or they think of themselves as Gods and wound up with their heads on a pike by the the time their firssst Purge rolls around. It happens to almost all of them. The fact that you’ve survived at all up to now is certainly a sign that, unlike most, _you_ aren’t stupid.”

"I certain hope not! My choices would reflect poorly on others in that case." He grins sharply, showing all his teeth again. In all honesty, he didn't care how he reflected on others. He doubted it would be mostly negative anyways. That's how it typically was, at the least. "It's a shame others couldn't think further than themselves. Guess they weren't playing the game well enough."

“I suppose they weren’t, no. And what is _your_ plan for this metaphorical game of yours, hmm? How do you intend to play?” He tilts his head ever so slightly, his hood seeming to twitch.

“Hmm.” A fine question to ask. “Well, I’ll admit I’ve gotten bored of _waiting_ for people to connect the dots I’ve left behind. So it’s time to raise the stakes a little. See what happens when I change things up a little. Take a step forward and see how many people step back, that sort of thing.”

“Hmm...” Pentious’s head tilts, slightly. “Interesting. I look forward to seeing the results. Speaking of which...”

They reach the end of the hall, which comes to yet another metal door, which Pentious is quick to open and slither through. It appears to be the observation deck for yet another testing facility, with the same large glass panel staring down into a room down below, except this room was relatively blank with nothing to be seen, and in front of the glass window was what looked to be a control panel, arranged with a series of buttons and switches, and even two small screens, which were currently switched off. There was a door to the side of the window that seemed to act as the entrance to the chamber below, and as the door slides shut behind both Alastor and Nora, Pentious points towards it with a claw. “The chamber down below is where we will be performing the test. Ssstep through that door and the elevator will take you down.”

“Of course, my dear.” He flashes another grin and approaches the door, idly glancing over the control panel on his way, and steps inside. The door closes behind him and the elevator descends. He folds his arms behind his back, keeping his smile soft as he waits. Lots of waiting here. Good thing he had patience. The elevator doors open and he steps into the room. The fingers of one of his hands trills against his arms as he waits for instructions - or none, as the case may be. It’d be interesting if they surprised him.

The room was completely barren of anything at all, and was colored the same fuschia hue as Pentious’s own eyes, with slight black or golden outlines here or there lining the walls, nowhere near as extravagant as the rest of the facility that he has seen thus far. 

There was a faint crackle of a microphone as it was switched on, and he could see both Pentious and Nora’s faces peer down at him from above, the former’s voice ringing out through the speakers. “Testing, testing. Can you hear me down there, Alastor?”

“Loud and clear!” He nods a few times, turning around as he moves to the center and taking in his surroundings. Such a tasteless place to prove his worth, but, well.... beggars can’t be choosers.

“Wonderful. Now, to start out, we’ll be testing your primary reflexes, as well as your resssponse time.” There was a slight pause, presumably spent with Pentious pressing an array of buttons on the control panel, before there was a loud mechanical whirring, and a panel suddenly drops down just below the glass window, revealing a balcony where a soldier stood, some form of gun raised over his shoulder, pointing down right towards him. Pentious’s voice was heard again, a touch more mischievous. “I think you can guesss what you’re supposed to do here.” 

The gun starts to fire rapidly, bright crackling beams of maroon light, shooting towards Alastor in quick succession.

Alastor flashes a wide grin as he sees the balcony lower before the window, and he lets a tinge of his own mischief filter onto his face, aimed directly at the gunner. He hears the gun start up and jumps to the side, just a few feet at a time as the lasers touch where he had been standing. He lets the shots impact the ground inches from his feet, not only to prove a point, but also because he knew the instinct of a rifleman would be to move a large degree. He jumps back as a shot aims at the tips of his toes and skitters to the right. “Oh, please. Do you want me to do the Charleston for you?”

Pentious’s voice crackles through the speaker again. “Basic reflexes seem to be good, but why don’t we kick it up a notch?” There was another pause, just before there was the sound of another panel opening up, and Alastor just barely feels the heat of another laser suddenly flying past his cheek, scorching a black mark into the wall.

His eyes dart to the side, brows raised slightly, and he chuckles as he trots diagonally toward and away from the two gunners. He tilts his body to the side as a shot aims for his shoulder, then ducks and spins around another to grin at the new gunner, daring them to really try their best. Then again, maybe Pentious didn’t want them at their best just yet. He hops to the side and back, shrugging to himself and humming a little tune, tilting his head for another close shot. “Do you have any more, dear? By all means, take your time. I’m simply curious.”

He can just barely see Pentious’s grin widen a touch from behind the glass, and at least three seconds of silence. When Alastor’s eyes fall upon the first balcony, at least two more guards have joined the first. His gaze flicks to the balcony behind him and finds it to be the same number. Then a balcony to his left, to his right, all armed with three gunmen standing and ready. There was a slight pause before the air lights up with laser fire. He can't stay to a contained area anymore, which leaves him trotting and leaping across the room, ducking under fire and even rolling a few times - maybe that military training would actually pay off for once - and he even manages a few short spins when he gains some ground on them. The song he hums switches to one with a faster tempo, and he glances at the panels the demons were standing on. If this wasn't a test for his reflexes, he'd have already found a way to rend at least one from the walls. Or get them to shoot each other. Ooh, walls did exist. Hmm. Maybe he'd leave that for another test. Smoke sizzles around him as the lasers burn into the metal floor. A singular bolt scrapes his side.

Dammit. They just got this vest.

And still the lasers just keep coming. They don’t stop, the mechanisms of the guns not ceasing even once despite the fact that any normal gun would have needed to be reloaded at least several times over by this point. They just keep firing, again and again, scorching little black marks into the floors, the walls, the soldiers holding their positions like statues. Pentious is just barely seen from the window, grinning down at him with a look of smug satisfaction, while Nora is feverishly writing something down on a clipboard.

Alastor ducks and spins again, trotting to the other side of the room. He straightens momentarily as a bolt gets close to his neck. "Hey! This tie is expensive! Aim elsewhere." He dives over a row of bolts and slides, rolling to his feet and ducking again, skittering toward the center of the room.

Pentious’s voice crackles through the loud speaker, and even then the lasers don’t stop firing. “Feel free to shout out your ssssurrender whenever it gets to be too much! If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to up the pressure a touch.” 

Another, much more rugged looking soldier comes out onto the front balcony with a weapon that Alastor hasn’t quite seen before; it was cylindrical in shape, like that of a tube, one end ending in the pattern of a gear, and it was held in a pose not too dissimilar to a rifle, except instead of the typical “over the shoulder” it was held at a more “at the ribs” type of pose. The inner workings of the machine seemed to glow a bright green, before a sudden light came rupturing out of the tube in the form of a large beam, careening towards the ground below just as fast as the regular lasers that were still flying through the air. 

“Oh my dear lord-!” Alastor dives again, darting and kicking himself into _actual_ running. The soldier’s rifle made the rest of the weapons look like pistols in comparison. Longer bolts whiz past him, making him have to switch up his rhythm instead of simply skirting around them like an average bullet. He tries to zigzag across the room, but there simply isn’t enough space, and the new weapon was making him pause or dart back or roll under it, which only took up more time and let the others get closer and closer to him. Luckily enough, it was moments like this that his thinness actually helped him. He’d be a difficult target to hit if he had a more typical frame, but so long as he kept moving, they’d be aiming for the widest part of him, his shoulders. Thank God he still frequents speakeasies.

The soldier wielding the rifle seems to narrow his eyes and adjust his pose, a hand moving to spin the gear pattern on the edge of the gun’s muzzle, causing the green light within it to flare even brighter. Suddenly, the beams that begin to shoot out of the mechanism don’t fly through the air one at a time, instead, they fire at rapid succession, in bursts of three, flying through the air, the rippling light almost seeming to _curve._

“Okay, that’s just not fair!” He almost laughs, skidding on a run and tipping himself back as one of the beams curves in front of him. “How do you even - have you found a way to manipulate physics?” A bullet skims his shoulder and he gets moving again, actually starting to trot back and forth similar to a Charleston dance, but _definitely_ not a Charleston dance. Somehow he had gotten himself back into the middle, and he has no choice but to continue moving in a limited space. “You might want to talk to Einstein about that!”

Pentious merely grins down smugly towards him, his tongue slithering out to do that weird flicking thing that snakes tend to do, saying nothing. The soldiers that were manning the regular laser pistols seem to get the idea for they move to adjust their own guns, which too start firing in bursts of three, and suddenly, there are far too many lights to keep track of. He can feel his heart starting to pound, his blood starting to rush, and the burning sting of the lasers against his skin only seem to highlight the fact that he can actually feel his muscles starting to strain ever so slightly against his bones. When was the last time that he had felt something like this? When he was actually _trying?_ He honestly couldn’t remember, and part of it enthralled him and the other part terrified him. Maybe he had been out of the game for too long. Maybe he shouldn’t have let himself get bored of everyone’s best not matching his. Either way, he was glad he had chosen to ally himself with Pentious, even if the demon was ridiculously tedious in his practices.

One of his hands shoot up as he feels two hits on his shoulder. “Okay! Okay, I think that’s it!” He continues to dodge the shots, but more continue to hit him all the same. “Way too cramped in here.”

Pentious simply raises up a hand to snap his fingers and within an instant, all of the guns cease to fire, the only sign that the weapons had been in any use at all was the smoke that slowly raise from the tips of their barrels. The microphone crackles once again as the panels slowly slide shut. “Wonderful, Alassstor. Truly impressive. Nora?”

“About 3 minutes and 15 seconds, Sir.” 

“Excellent, write that down.” 

“Of course, Sir.”

“Only three minutes?” Alastor lets out a breath, smoothing his clothes and trying to shake out some of the ashes that clung to the fabric. His bow tie feels miraculously unscathed. Maybe he’d find some throwaway clothes and try again sometime. He takes a breath to try and still his heart, hands propping themselves on his hips. “Dear me, I really am out of shape. Quite a few excellent shots, though. Kudos to whoever it was who hit me first.”

“Alright, now that we have the basic reflex and endurance test out of the way, how about we try...” Pentious’s hand visibly curls around a lever, and his smug smirk only widens, revealing his teeth as he almost violently shoves it forward. “Ssstrength.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Sounds like a reasonable thing to test for, though I’m curious-” His ears prick at the sound of unlatching metal and he barely has the time to look up before an entire _car_ comes barreling down at him. He wastes a second in pure panic, staring at the massive thing careening toward him, and by the time his mind tells him to _run_ another voice in his head tells him _too late_ and his arms jut up to take the brunt of the damage. His legs buckle slightly and his arms jolt into ninety degrees, head craned down, staring at his shoes, as the contraption groans over him. Alastor could barely feel his hands, the amount of adrenaline spiking in his body keeping him from properly taking stock of his body as he forces himself to merely breathe.

Sir Pentious was going to kill him. In testing him, this man was going to murder him.

 _If_ he wasn’t smart enough.

There came the crackle of the microphone again. “Ohh, you actually _caught_ it. Interesting. Can you describe to me how you feel right now? Do you think you can try to lift it up?”

Alastor takes another breath. How he‘s _feeling?_ Well, he didn’t like have _cars_ thrown at him without warning. He doubts that’s what Pentious means. “I feel - I hope you didn’t like this car. I think my claws punctured the chassis.” He inhales and slowly shifts his legs under him, unbending them and pushing his arms up. His right shoulder shakes where it had been zapped a few times. “I’m a little shaky to be-” The car tips to one side and he shifts accordingly. “-quite frank.”

“Your claws _punctured_ the metal frame of a car?”

“They tend to do that, yes.” He heaves the car further, managing to straighten his head under it. “Is that surprising?”

“Definitely unexpected. Nora?”

“Already on it, Sir.” Her gaze was still buried in the clipboard she was holding, scribbling away.

Pentious narrows his eyes, leaning forward a bit. “Any weaknessss in your legs yet?”

“Not that I can feel, though I doubt I could _walk_ right now. It’s mostly my arms. And the adrenaline.” He takes another breath, feeling himself ease a touch more. His back isn’t straight. He straightens it. He hates slouching.

“How much longer do you think you can keep holding it?”

“Hm.” He raises his right arm a touch to level the car. “Probably a long while. Well. Maybe an hour or two.” He recalls vaguely holding a concrete slab from a building that had fallen on top of him. It had taken him at least that long to cut his leg off to get out.

“Hmm. How do we know that’s a precisssse estimate? I don’t take kindly to _guesses,_ Alastor.”

He exhales. “I’ve had a building fall on me and caught _that._ I was under for at least two hours, but I don’t recall how much rubble was on me to be _exact.”_

“Hmmm....Nora, write that down.” He moves to the same lever he had shoved earlier and pulls it back, to which the car slowly starts to lift back up into the ceiling.

Alastor relaxes slowly, wiggling his fingers as a few get stuck and start lifting with the car, managing to pry them out before he could embarrass himself. He cracks his neck and then stretches to pop his back, looking back at Pentious. Pentious’s eyes seem to follow the car as it slowly ascends, his gaze finally dropping back down towards Alastor as soon as it’s out of sight. He doesn’t press down on the button for the microphone. “Have the engineers look over the car. Check for damage. I want to have a confirmed report that his claws actually went through the metal.” 

She nods softly. “Of course, Sir.”

He moves to press the button to activate the microphone again. “Do you need a moment to breathe? Or do you want us to move on?”

“I have a rather quick recovery time.” Not necessarily true in all cases, but that’s beyond the point. “I’m doing quite swell, actually.” He bares his teeth again, hands folding behind his back. “We can move on.”

“Hmm. Somehow I doubt that.” His eyes couldn’t help but narrow slightly. “The next tests will focus on your senses. We start with hearing.” There was a pause before the lights in the chamber below suddenly all shut off, plunging Alastor in total darkness, to the point where even with the glow of his own eyes he couldn’t see a thing.

“Hmm.” He closes his lips over his teeth, and shortly after closes his eyes. Standing in the dark. A common experience in Hell, if he were to be honest. It was an easy way to ambush someone - or be ambushed. Those were the moments in which having luminescent teeth and eyes were _not_ fun to deal with. He lets his ears prick and swivel, lets his breathing deepen in an attempt to calm his heartbeat so it wouldn’t impede the rest of his awareness. He tries to keep himself from smelling the air, claws already starting to clench idly, knowing for a fact that _something_ was about to happen and didn’t want to be caught off guard. He waits, silent, unmoving in the darkness for what feels like an eternity. 

His ears prick, his body tenses, and within seconds he turns on his heel, feeling the rush of air that sweeps against his cheek as a fist goes hurling past his face. Alastor lets himself slide back, not wanting to click his heels on the ground, and shifts at another punch that sails over his shoulder. Whoever it was, their shoes... don’t squeak, per say, but they made a slight noise, perhaps more like fabric sliding on a smooth surface, right along side the dull little _thip thip thip_ of light footsteps. The air whistles, lower, and he twists himself sideways and reaches out with his arm, grabbing a face covered in plastic and fabric and pushing it aside. Masks and goggles, in a pitch dark room. How curious.

Pentious can’t help but lean toward the small screens that line the frame of the control panel, his eyes narrowing slightly, humming softly to himself as he watches the green haze of Alastor casually twist and dodge the soldier’s attempts to punch, his tail flicking back and forth idly. “Hmm. Quite the nimble sssort he is...” He taps a claw idly against the panel, watching keenly as two other figures slowly made their descent down from the wall as the first one charges forward. His eyes flick to the second screen, one that displays the heat signatures of both Alastor and the soldiers with flares of bright red and orange, squinting after a moment. “...Isss it just me or is his heat signature lower than it ought to be?”

Nora leans a little closer, peering at the monitor with one eye. "It... is much lower than the others. And _decreasing?"_ She tilts her head to look with the other. "It doesn't look like he's making the room colder, so it must be his own temperature lowering...." She jots a note on her paper. "He's quite the strange one, Sir Pentious."

“I’m ssstarting to get the feeling.” He lets his eyes flick back to the screen, watching as the two unseen soldiers slowly creep toward Alastor’s frame as he nimbly dodges and spins around the one soldier that threw the first punch. “Certainly not what I was expecting...”

Alastor’s ears twitch, swiveling slightly, and he shifts back half a step, bringing his hands up to practically slap punches aside. His chest rises as he takes another breath, and his body temperature drops another half dozen degrees, starting to fade into room temperature. The other two figures on the camera quietly slink up behind him. He doesn't seem to notice. Pentious narrows his eyes ever so slightly as his eyes flick over towards the infra red screen, then back toward the night vision screen. “Almost...Almossst...”

One of the unseen figures on the screen seems to brace themselves for a moment, before lunging.

A weight crashes into Alastor's side and he hears static fizzle out of his mouth as he crashes onto the ground, arms pinning one of his arms. He thrashes, feeling the grip loosen for half a moment, just enough for him to twist around, onto his back. A hand lands on his face, a low growl tears from his throat, and he snaps his jaws on the wrist, too fast for the demon to pull away, rending a scream from them. Alastor grabs at the demon's face with one hand, the talons of his other sinking into a shoulder, and he _tugs_ the hand in his mouth to pull his victim closer, jaws instinctively dropping the hand and snapping around the throat provided him. He feels the sensation of blood against his tongue, feels his own inside his veins _howling_ , relishing in the carnage, in the brief moment of indulgence, and he can’t help but let his teeth dig in, deeper, _deeper_ , the screaming ringing in his ears distorting and gurgling into a weak, pathetic gargle, and he feels himself starting to pull his teeth back, start to _tear_ the flesh from the bone-

Within an instant, the lights flash on, sending pain searing into his eyes, and just before he can reel back in the agony, he feels the sensations of claws on his shoulders, _wrenching_ him back, wrenching him away, and he feels his body flying through the air before crashing to the ground in a jumbled heap, his eyes blearily flickering open and closed as he tries to process what exactly just happened. Alastor coughs, blood catching in the back of his throat and arms pushing himself upright. He runs his wrist across his mouth, grimacing as he feels too much blood to properly wipe away, and blinks up at the freshly lit room. He swallows the blood in his mouth before he could cough again. His breath heaves between clenched teeth, static faintly clinging to him, and he swears he can feel his pupils contracted almost into slits.

The soldiers, now clearly in view, wearing dark suits and masks that hide their faces from sight, are slowly picking up the body of their teammate, their eyes visibly shaking with horror from where they peek out beyond the masks, thick goggles pushed up to rest on top of their heads. Judging by the way the body was utterly limp and dripping with copious amounts of blood that was quickly starting to stain the floor, the man was most certainly dead, and soon, the three had taken the elevator up and out of the chamber, leaving a disturbingly large pool of dark crimson behind. 

Sir Pentious was sitting there, staring down at said pool, and as he slowly turns to face Alastor, his hood slowly flares outward, displaying bright, burning red eyes that line the inside of his hair. His expression is trembling with barely contained fury, his lip curled back to display his fangs, and as his claws clench, they visibly gain a dark red aura, his body slowly rearing back as he lifts himself into the air, much like a cobra raising itself up in preparation to strike. 

“ _Explain yourself._ **_Now_ ** _.”_

Red magic. Just like the tram. Alastor forces himself to focus on Sir Pentious’ face as he slowly picks himself up, though he feels his back protest. His smile closes as he contemplates an answer, confused by the anger behind his tone. This _is_ about testing him, isn’t it? He tilts his head to the side and quirks a brow. “I was defending myself.” His voice comes out even, not the slightest bit shocked or phased by the events. Blood drips down one of his fingers.

“ _Defending yourself?”_ Pentious’s hood rattles, as shaking in anger, and he points a claw in his direction, his tail visibly _lashing_ across the floor, the eye on his hat narrowing as it’s teeth bare itself in a snarl. “ _I did not command you to use lethal force on my men!_ I did _not_ ever give you any kind of _permission_ to tear that man’s throat out! Did my own soldiers ever threaten you with a blade? Did they ever put you in a choke hold or attempt to shoot you in the gut?! What makes you think that you can slaughter my own soldiers _within my own base,_ on nothing more than a _whim?!”_

He starts to slither closer, his outstretched claw shaking in the air as if giving a lecture, his pupils nothing more than thin slits, his form starting to glow more and more with that bright, brilliant, _burning_ red. “This was meant to be a _test,_ Alassstor! A test and nothing more! A simple, harmless test in order to see what you can do! It is _not_ a playground for you to _murder_ when you feel like it! That is why you are here, in my base, in my territory, planning to work _for me!_ And when you work for me, you only murder _when I give the order!”_ He reaches Alastor, reaches out and grabs him by the collar of the shirt, slamming him back up against the wall, to the point where he can’t feel his own legs touch the floor anymore, and he finds his eyes inches away from Pentious’s own, his gaze trembling, boiling with fury, with rage, with abject _malice._

His voice was a low, low growl, a venomous hiss, in every meaning of the word. “I will not tolerate this kind of transgression, Alastor. I will not tolerate those who cannot. _Hold. Back.”_

Alastor continues smiling, barely moving as Pentious chews him out, reprimanding him for something that wasn’t fully explained to him. He feels a chuckle build in his chest at the thought and suppresses the urge to let it out by closing his lips over his fangs and straightening his head. He doesn’t move as the Overlord approaches him, as the haze of magic thickens around him in his anger. Red magic. He could barely feel his magic as it seeped into the room, but he could _see it._ His muscles twitch as he’s grabbed, hoisted, again tossed against the wall, and he manages to keep his claws in check and well away from Sir Pentious, but he can feel his face twisting with the hint of his own growl, lips unable to conceal the predatory grin he’d been hiding. Static laces his breaths.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He goes through the list of critiques in his mind, starting with _you didn’t tell me I couldn’t kill_ and swiftly progressing to _what part of serial murderer do you not understand_ and capping off with _magic twined with chaos is hard to hold when tied to emotions, isn’t it?_ He blinks once. “Of course, my dear.”

Pentious doesn’t speak for a moment, his eyes narrowing, the magic crackling and humming beneath his claws so intensely that Alastor swears he can almost feel it rumbling in his chest. Finally, he hisses again, and it’s a much softer, much more quiet growl. “Ssssomehow, I get the feeling that I’m not being clear enough.” 

Nothing happens. Nothing changes. Pentious keeps him there, keeps him pinned, dangling up against the wall, and it’s only when he registers the faint sound of something wet dripping down onto the floor does he realize that his wrist is bleeding, a faint trickle that curls along the bend of his claws to drip down from the tips. There was a pause, his heart thudding softly in his chest, before his vision suddenly is overcome by a blinding agony, before he suddenly loses all coherency, feeling his jaw drop and and his limbs stiffen as a horrid, agonizing, absolutely _excruciating_ pain slowly begins to fill his chest, his torso, his _skin_.

Alastor whistles in a breath, clenching his jaw back together as heat laces through his body, coursing through his chest with every beat of his heart, and he takes a moment to try and _stop_ his heart - because of course he can do that, he can do many things, and demon anatomy is simply wonderful like that - but his breath escapes him and his pulse only quickens as his body starts to panic. Little knives follow the burning heat, almost too slender to properly feel, until they twist, his hands twitching, legs kicking in a weak attempt to shake the pain away. His insides are melting. He can feel it with how his breathing grows damp, how blood creeps into his mouth, and like a switch his body, it all starts to heal - only the poison is still working its way through his body, so the stitches immediately rip open again, painfully, nerves that had been broken lighting up again and being devoured once more. His torso convulses and he coughs, most of the blood caught behind his teeth, but little bits starting to trickle down his chin. The blood comes out black.

Alastor continues to smile, continues to glare at Pentious, and wonders if maybe he’d have had better luck actually telling the Overlord off. He had been plenty clear. Alastor had understood everything he said. And he had meant his words. But clearly something in the communication was off. He’d have to walk Pentious through his mannerisms at some point. If he could ever figure out how to do that, at least.

This entire encounter practically summarized why he had gone solo for so long.

Pentious’s anger, his rage, slowly seems to bubble away, and after a moment, he pulls away and simply lets Alastor’s body drop like a sack of potatoes, and he can barely muster up the breath to let out a wheeze as he lands on his side, his entire frame shaking, twitching, quivering, barely able to do little else than lay there in a heap, in a pathetic lump of his own limbs. All the while it felt as if his whole body was slowly being reduced to mush, felt as if his stomach would pop open like the body of a swollen tick and spill his spewing, boiling guts all over the floor of the chamber, his vision a blurry haze, just barely recognizing that Pentious was moving, was talking to him, that slithering voice humming in his ears almost like the buzz of static. 

“What you are feeling right now, Alastor, is a singular drop of the venom contained within your mark. It is the same venom meant to put an end to your life should you ever choose to attempt to betray me. It is the same venom that can and will flood your entire body within secondssss and reduce your exissstance to little more than a puddle. And _I_ am the only thing keeping it from doing so.” 

The tip of Pentious’s tail slips under his chin like a delicate finger, slowly tilting his head up to force him to look him in the eye. Pentious’s face is a steady, calm gaze, no longer displaying malice, or hatred, or anger. Just cold, collected, judgement. 

“So, let me ask, Alastor. Are. We. Clear?”

A shudder runs through his body as he feels the poison slowly starting to wear off, feels his own regenerative abilities overwhelm it. He coughs again, blood continuing to leak from his mouth. His eyes wearily meet Pentious’, focusing through sheer willpower. Alastor takes a moment to clear his voice, then clearly and deliberately says, “Of c-course... my dear.”

Pentious’s eyes narrow, and his hood slowly flattens back into it’s proper place. “Good.” 

He raises a hand to snap his fingers, and within an instant, the last few knives of agony twisting itself into his flesh dissipates entirely, ebbing away as if it was never there at all. Pentious moves a hand to a pocket of his coat, pulling out a soft pink handkerchief, and lowers it towards him. “Clean yourssself up, please.”

Alastor vaguely stares at the handkerchief, feeling his body properly evening itself out, and takes it delicately. He pushes himself half upright, spitting more of the gunk into the puddle that had accumulated when he fell, and then starts wiping his face clean. He says nothing as he picks himself up off the ground, using the wall as leverage as his eyesight dims and flickers. He pretends everything is alright. He doesn’t look Pentious in the eyes.

Pentious is motionless, merely moving to back up to give Alastor some room as he slowly pushes himself up from the floor. His tongue flickers out as he watches him, his face still as passive as ever, a cold look brimming within his eyes, one that was so much more different than the rage that had once filled it. He slowly moves to turn away, turn his back to the man, his tail lashing once before falling still. “...I’ll give you a moment to recover. Then we move on. Understood?”

“Understood.” He takes a breath and leans his back against the wall, closing his eyes for the moment. The pain eeks away with every passing second, the shaking in his limbs easing before anything else. He looks down at his vest, seeing a few drips of his own blood staining it alongside a spray from the other demon he had so easily dispatched. A sigh passes his lips. “I wasn’t aware I couldn’t kill. And I have a thing about people touching me. It sets me off.”

That gets Pentious to pause for a moment, and his tail lashes again, his tongue flickering out as his voice dips into a soft growl. “I _imagine_ one would _figure_ that I wouldn’t want my own men to be _ripped to pieces_ during a simple _test.”_ His shoulders rise and then fall as he takes a deep breath to calm himself, and he turns his head to face Alastor more fully. “...Will this...reaction...be a problem?”

“Not if I have the parameters going forward.” He glances past him at the pool of blood. “I’ll make sure to not kill any of your men going forward, regardless of what they do or how they get on my nerves. There are more amicable means of getting someone away from me.” Disliking the creeping feeling of still being pinned to the wall, he walks around Pentious, giving him a solid five feet of space, and moves toward the opposite side of the room.

Pentious watches him, his coils slowly sliding against the floor in order to turn his body to follow his pace, and after a moment his arms cross. “What made you think that you had permission to kill my men in the first place? This was a test, a simple, non-lethal test, not actual combat out in the battlefield. I expected you to already know that going in; it’s practically common sense.”

“Hm.” Alastor holds back another laugh, knowing he’d only be digging his grave further. He turns back to him, folding his hands behind his back like before. “To start, from what I understand, it’s not common practice to _hold back_ while being tested. You go all in or you don’t. And beyond that, Sir Pentious, there isn’t a single Overlord or crime boss in all of Hell who cares about the wellbeing of their lesser associates.” His eyes narrow slightly, both in curiosity and confusion. “Death means nothing unless done with an angel blade, my dear. We’ll all reset eventually. It’s just another fact of the afterlife.”

Pentious’s tail flicks idly, and his tongue flickers out, claws tapping against his elbow. “Perhaps so. But death, no matter how short or simple or _inconssssequential_ it might seem, still means a loss in soldiers, a loss in numbers, and the time that it takes for them to finally awaken _from_ that death is enough to raise potential risks. Risssks that I can not afford.” He’s silent for a moment. “As for the tesssst, I can see now that I never gave you good instruction on what I wanted from you, and I will claim resssponsibility for that. However, I do still expect that every order I _do_ give from here on out to be fulfilled to the best you can.”

“Of course.” He dips his head at that and looks aside. His stomach was settling, but so was the fatigue. Thankfully, he had thought to steal a little of dinner before breakfast. Just in case. “I’m good at following orders, however contrary it may seem. The only issue comes if I get bored, and I’ll make sure to tell you when that happens.” Communication. He’s going to hate it, but he’ll need it to survive.

“Hmm. Good.” He nods softly, before finally letting out a sigh, a soft one, a hand moving back to run through his hair, giving it a flick or two before it seems to settle back into it’s proper place. “...Let’s move on to the next tessst.” He starts to slither back toward the elevator.

Alastor stays where he’s standing, watching him leave. “And what will this one be?”

He pauses for a moment, a hand on the door to keep it from shutting. “...It will focus on your magic.” He lets the door shut, and the mechanism begins to make it’s ascent.

•••

Niffty sits on the couch, coffee table brought close to her, and carefully flips through the first tome Nora had left for her. The diagrams continue to depict demonic entities, though once or twice a mortal shows up, and instead of the odd vacancy in their chest, there would be radiant orbs, shimmering and bright on the page. Everything is anatomical in a very non-anatomical sense, and it fascinates her in a way she can’t quite explain. Maybe it had to do with the unknown. She did like having questions answered.

She flips back to the beginning. “Okay, okay. Enough looking at the pictures. Let’s actually _read_ something.” She skims through the pages she had read before, reminding herself that no demon holds a soul as a result of Lucifer’s whims. And that demons could see souls if they made deals with mortals. Niffty suppresses a shudder at the thought. She takes another look at the depiction of the demon wrapped in symbols. Some of the symbols had _definitely_ been on Alastor’s radio. She’d have to mention it to Nora when she gets back. She flips to the next page.

_”While some may find it redundant, it is important to define the differences between Born Demons and Made Demons. The exact titles for each may vary between sources, but Born Demons (also called Fiends, Imps, Hellions, et cetera) almost always constitute those whose first memories are of Hell, who inevitably work at the beck and call of the King of Hell, and who are born of his or similarly advanced and intricate magic. They hold no soul, like all demons, but more for the fact they never had one to begin with. There is no imprint of hole where a soul would have been extracted. Similarly, they exhibit a different kind of aura from Made Demons. Sigils and symbols from a variety of holy texts line their being, which shows as a silhouette of pure magic in the shape of their physical form.”_

Niffty can’t help but slowly frown at the description, her brow furrowing as she lifts a finger to carefully trace one of the lines of text against the page. “From a variety of holy texts...Does she mean the Bible? I don’t recall that having any symbols in it. Or do those not count because they were made by people?” She flips back to the page with the depiction of the imp, taking a moment to glance over the symbols yet again, before glancing over the text. “And imps are made by the Devil...So the magic that Nora can see is his magic...So why would those symbols be on Alastor’s radio?”

_“The souls of Made Demons (also Sinners, Miscreants, The Wicked, Corrupt, Immoral, et cetera) are similar in how they are absent from the physical body of the demon, but the imprint of the soul remains even post mortem, not only in the gap left from the extraction of the soul, but also in the physical form of the demon. While appearances, especially in Hell, work to deceive others, the physical manifestation of the body after its conversion from Mortal to Demon seems to be rooted in the shape and constitution of the soul itself. Made Demons manifest forms which relate, in some way, to past experiences, prominent personality traits, beliefs, cultural impressions, and, seemingly, fears, distastes, personal animus, and prejudice. All these things, and more, house themselves within the soul and eventually become physically present in the Afterlife. For example, someone who may have had a short stature in Life but an imposing or threatening personality may find themselves in a taller body, and vice versa. An individual with a distinct hatred of a certain animal may find themselves in a body representative of said animal. Note: as every person is different, these ‘rules’ may not apply neatly; do not take these examples as certainty of the individual’s past experiences or temperaments.”_

“Past experiences, huh?” Her free hand slowly curls into a fist, and something in her chest tightens. She tries to chase it away with a grin and a quiet chuckle, and it thankfully works. “Don’t see how all that soul stuff has anything to do with turning me into a cyclops. What was my soul trying to say, that I don’t deserve depth perception?”

“ _The case of one eyed demons is particularly interesting. They are perhaps the most well represented species of demon, but typically exhibit the widest range of abilities rather than being a monogamous unit. Conversations and surveys indicate a tendency toward ambition in life, but there are few other similarities among the group, and said ambition may have dwindled upon entrance into Hell. Spiders and other Insects in Hell are perhaps the next largest population, and seemingly led more secretive lives in closely knitted communities. These communities may be something as simple as a poetry group or as complex as a palace’s sentries. Note: keep in mind those who may exhibit traits they find undesirous; not all Sinners of these groups relate to these generalizations.”_

“Huh?” She leans in just a bit closer to the text, re-reading the segment of demons with one eye over and over again before raising a brow as she leans back again. “Ambition? How am I...” 

She trails off a touch, remembering her time of training to be a nurse, of arriving in Hell and hearing the screams of demons as they were slaughtered during what others around her called “the Purges”, of working to drag bleeding demons off the streets as the days passed by and slowly helping them get back up on their feet. Of sitting next to Nora and proclaiming that she’d rather keep on healing the sick and weak despite the risks it might pose to her safety. 

“...I..I guess I am. Huh.”

 _”In either case, the essential process of becoming a demon seems to be an inversion of the soul. While it is not physically present, it makes a physical appearance on the body, changes the body’s form according to its own form, and as a result remains ‘present’ without being present. The manifestation of the Sinner’s body is itself a tie to the soul, explaining how magic is much more plentiful in Hell than it is on Earth: the innate magic of a person, housed within the soul, is transformed and more readily accessible in a form which itself is made_ from _the soul. The body remains tied to the soul’s reservoir of magic regardless of distance or detachment of the two items. This may also explain how demons may make deals with other demons and gain power from it, yet never receive a soul as a result of the contract. Power is drawn from the tie and then severed. This power draw may be of different amounts according to the strength of the Contractor, but is essentially tantamount to handing the Contractor a singular bowl of soup with the Provider withholds the rest of the pot. In theory, a demon can make an infinite number of deals without restriction, while a Mortal can make infinite deals with a singular demon only.”_

“Hmmm...” Niffty’s eye narrows, again needing to re-read the segment a couple times before it actually starts to click, and she taps her chin with a finger. “So...Demons have magic because their bodies are basically made from the soul? And deals with demons basically draw power from the connections they still have with their souls?” She takes a moment to glance down at her wrist, the one that had held the mark of Sir Pentious on it, and she lets herself frown a touch. “...It did feel really weird when I shook his hand. Besides the...snake biting into my wrist thing.”

_”While there are very few notable cases of demons committing to deals in such a reckless manner, those few cases imply a ‘splintering’ effect of one’s power. This may manifest physically, in strange ailments or chronic injuries or disease, or in a difficulty of magic, such as loss of certain abilities or a lowering of the ‘cap’ of one’s magic, shown in frequent ‘snapbacks’ despite a typically average output of magic.”_

“Snapbacks....Snapbacks...” Niffty frowns slightly. “Wait, so...You can make more than one deal? And if you make too many, it can cause a sort of...magic whiplash that gets them sick?” She can’t help but think back to the bloodied mess that she had found Alastor in, surrounded by torn bodies and bloodied guts while he was soaked in viscera. “...Was that what happened to him?”

_”With this mention of magic, it does well to identify the types of magic present, as later conversations on Angels and Fallen Angels require an identification of how these beings draw their power as compared to both Born and Made demons.”_

“Types, huh? Interesting. Didn’t think there were types when it came to stuff like magic.” She turns the page.

•••

Alastor stares at the row of dummies lining the far wall, and then glances up at the observation room where Pentious and Nora stand watching and taking notes. Use magic. That's all that was said. Well, that and _don't take the building down_ which went unsaid but was rather obvious. He looks back at the dummies and considers his options. He had to be careful, since he could easily run himself dry again after healing so much. Which means most of his flashier methods were going on the back burner. He shrugs with a small hum and snaps his fingers. Fire it is then.

All five dummies immediately catch on fire, the plastic starting to melt, almost entirely engulfed in flames.

"Starting easy," he says calmly, splaying his hand out and summoning five fireballs, flexing his fingers to launch them at the already burning pyres.

Pentious taps a claw against his elbow, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as watches the dummies catch flame. “Hmm. How rare is it for a demon to simply set something ablaze with his fingers without touching it?”

“Not _entirely_ rare, Sir, but it is a touch more advanced than simply lighting your own hand on fire, I suppose. The fact that there was no flame from his fingers is a sign of that.”

•••

Niffty halts for a moment, staring at a detailed depiction of angels in their Purge masks, holding bloodied spears and swords, permanent grins on their faces and eyes that weren’t eyes. She had seen it earlier in skimming the sketches, but the accuracy of the drawing is still haunting. They each wear crowns decorated with sharp lines hovering over them, but they look anything but holy.

_“Exterminators are the only Angels seen in Hell outside of Lucifer and the Fallen Angels, though some would argue none of them are truly Angels any longer. All the same, and regardless of their actions, they all appear to draw magic from a place separate from that of Demons. As one may assume from previous entries in this text, the vast majority of Demons draw magic from the soul. Angels, and their close relatives, appear to draw from a more potent form of this magic which I have deemed Natural or Holy Magic. From what little can be gleaned from the yearly Purges, this magic is more potent as a result of its closeness to the Creator who made them. Angels who descend from Heaven for the purpose of killing Sinners seemingly hold more stabilized magic than that seen from Lucifer. It may be that Heaven itself stabilizes or replenishes magic in some way, and that Fallen Angels’ magic loses this stabilization over time. There is no way to confirm this hypothesis outside of the statement of a Fallen Angel, and even then the answer must be scrutinized._

_”There is no known method of peering into an Angel’s soul. They seem to be capable of blocking others from viewing them, and can tell when someone is attempting such a thing. Do not attempt on Purge night.”_

That last line manages to draw a shudder down Niffty’s spine, and she feels her blood run cold. She can remember in great detail the sounds those “Exterminators” made as they flew through the air, the horrific screams that sounded so much more like the walls of the damned than anything down in Hell ever could replicate. Every single shriek and scream and explosion that rattled the floorboards above had made her flinch, made her cower, and she was sure that if she hadn’t found that hidden cellar in the bedroom of her old home, she wouldn’t have survived that second night. No around her did. 

She moves to cover the angel’s awful grin with a hand, then keeps on reading.

” _Soul Magic and Holy Magic do appear rather similar in output, with one merely being a more diluted form of the other. Different Angels exhibit different powers just as Demons do, and said powers may overlap even among the more general populace of Hell. Elemental magic, hypnosis, telekinesis, enhanced senses, spatial manipulation, and more are characteristic of all beings seen in Hell, be it mere visitors or residents. Some Angels do exhibit the ability to manipulate a Demon’s magic, in some cases to the extent of completely suppressing or negating their magic. This power may be related to the manipulation of souls, hence how Holy Magic may counteract Soul Magic.”_

“..Manipulate souls...” She takes a moment to flip back to the front page, of the illustration of what was meant to be the Devil, and frowns softly. “And the King of Hell _steals_ our souls when we fall into Hell...Hmm...” It would make sense for the King of Hell to take the souls, if only to make it easier for him to suppress magic that would potentially be used against him. But if even other Angels could suppress magic.... Niffty knew that some people fought Angels out of spite or egoism. She wonders if they’d change their minds if they knew about this.

•••

Alastor hums to himself, summoning a few more fireballs and moving them about in odd patterns, some sharp and sporadic while others are more lazy and perform loops. One simply moves up to the observation glass and hovers at a short distance, maintaining it's tail without moving. Alastor keeps one hand behind his back, orchestrating them all with his other, which he closes after a moment, extinguishing all the fires in the room.

“And that?” 

“It certainly displays that he is quite adept at controlling the flames, Sir. The fact that he can keep them still and completely whole is also very intriguing.”

“Can you see anything odd about his aura?”

“I’ve been wondering about it, Sir. It has the same general appearance as regular Made demons, but...There’s something wrong with it.”

“Wrong with it?”

•••

 _“There is a third kind of magic that I can only call Chaos Magic.”_ The paragraph hangs under three drawn circles: one large with a sort of starburst rendered from the center to the edges titled ‘Natural/Holy’, another much smaller circle to the right of it titled ‘Soul’, and a third circling both titled ‘Chaos’. _“This form is difficult to quantify even after extensive research. The exact location from which this magic is pulled is unknown, but theorized to be the latent, primal magic from the dawn of time. Some even theorize this source to be the nothing from which everything was made.”_

“...The nothing from which everything was made.” She traces that line with a finger, before moving to trace the illustration. “If Soul magic is the magic that demons can use, and if Holy magic is the magic derived from angels...Chaos magic...” She taps her finger against the page in thought. “Jeez, there’s a whole lot more to this magic stuff than I thought. How has she even figured out any of this stuff? Well, research, obviously, but _how?”_

•••

Alastor flicks his finger and one of the dummies flies back into the wall behind it. He does it to the rest, each one crashing into the wall despite nothing visibly hitting them, and then raises his hand, picking them all up and setting them back into their proper positions, upright and facing the right direction. He momentarily considers tossing them about again, juggling them maybe, then decides against it and draws a line in the air in front of him, leaving behind a stroke of fire. He etches out a simple, upright triangle, then surrounds it in a circle with a horizontal line on either side connecting the triangle to the circle.

Pentious raises a brow at that, and he narrows his eyes soon after. “..He’s making a rune...Which one is it?”

“I believe it’s..Hmm...I actually don’t quite know that one.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I mean...I do, it seems familiar enough, but...something is odd about it. I believe it’s some form of rune for...lightning?”

•••

_“I have only witnessed this form of magic used once in my life, and the user unfortunately suffered substantial damage from the raw output of energy. After weeks spent healing, she described the experience as ‘expending everything only to find there is more.’ Previous conversations with her implied a belief of latent magic in all things, even the very ground we walk on. It could be that this ‘latent magic’ is indeed the left over remains of the Chaotic Magic which God used to create the Universe. Extreme care should be taken when further experimenting with such magic.”_

•••

Above the symbol, his hand scratches out a sideways T, then a backward C looping together the head, then a small strike through the bottom of the T. The alchemical symbol for... magnesium? Below, he writes a capital E with the middle line striking through the stem: ashes. To the left he draws three rectangles stacked to form what looks like a doorway. To the right, a squiggly line, shortly striking it through with an odd, crooked trident with curled tips. He draws a circle encasing all the symbols and then starts sprinkling the empty space with little asterisks.

“And all of that?”

“I...I don’t know, Sir.”

“You’ve been down here for how long and sssssomehow you’ve never seen magic like this?”

“Not in this type of structure, no. It’s...I’ve seen it, somehow, I know I have but I just can’t place it.”

“This’ll be fun!” Alastor grins up at them, snapping his fingers and making the entire thing glow brighter. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, in all honesty.”

A flame flickers to life in his palm and he turns back to the symbol in front of him, eyeing all the pieces before bringing his hand up to the center and pressing the fire into it. For a moment, the fire bends, as if repulsed or hitting a wall, and then sinks into the rune. The whole thing sparks a bright white and, as his hand passes through it, the rune bending with his hand, the flames flicker into electricity, bouncing about his fingers and coalescing into a tight, jittery ball in front of his palm. His grin widens, letting his magic sit there for a moment, admiring the feeling, and then flexes his hand in a similar manner as before, sending bolts of lightning at the mannequins.

Within an instant, all of the mannequins shatter, like a window being broken, completely obliterating into thousands of tiny, tiny pieces, scattering all over the floor. The only thing left of them was the metal stands that they were perched on, and nothing else. Pentious’s eyes widen, and even Nora seems to go completely still, both of them staring down towards Alastor, as if waiting for something to backfire.

•••

“Woah.” Niffty’s eye widened, and she can’t help but stare down at the text for a moment. “Someone actually managed to _channel_ something like that? That...That’s _insane._ And they actually _survived_ too. Guess that really tells of Nora’s medical skills if she can manage to actually keep this lady alive.” 

•••

He stands there, arm still wrapped in his own magic, electricity sparking off his fingers and into the walls. An absolutely sinister look consumes his face, pupils drawn in to slits and eyes glowing, grin curling back over his cheek bones. Then he blinks and closes his hand, the sigils falling away and the electricity vanishing without any output. His expression falls back to his usual level of amusement and he flicks a few crumbles of ash off his shoulder and straightens his hair. He could feel himself running on empty, feel how the burst of magic, of transmuting one form of energy into another, had drained him beyond dry yet still standing. He didn’t feel a slight bit dizzy. Seems like he calculated properly.

Alastor looks up at them and _smirks._

There was a pause, Pentious simply staring at Alastor with a look of shock, his jaw slightly open, while Nora had simply ceased to hold her clipboard entirely, both it and the pencil she was holding dropping to the floor. There was a long, long pause of silence, before Pentious’s look of shock slowly grows into a grin, dare one say even a _smirk_ , staring down toward Alastor with a look that could only be described as _smug._ He moves to press the button on the microphone, the speakers crackling to life. 

“Bravo, Alastor. Quite the show, I will admit. I don’t think I need to see anymore. I know _exactly_ where I can place you amongst my militia now.”

He chuckles, tilting his head as he turns his body toward them, hands behind his back. “Oh, thank you, dear. I’m eager to hear my assignment.”

“And I’ll be eager to see how you perform.” His hood seems to rattle in an almost pleased fashion, and his eyes glance to Nora, letting go of the microphone button. “Nora, do you-...” He sees the way she’s standing, motionless, and his expression slowly drops. “..What is it?” Something in his face seems to click, and his hood flares, expression turning serious. “What did you see?”

Nora seems to snap out of whatever deep thought she was in, and stoops down to pick up the clipboard. “Not now.”

Pentious blinks, and his expression twists into incredulity. “Wha-“

“Not. Now.” She turns to fix him with a serious glare, her grin entirely gone, her eyes shining with a bright light that almost seems to get brighter. 

Pentious stares for a moment, a bit taken aback, before his hood goes limp, and he sighs, before nodding. “Alright.” He moves back to the microphone, pressing the button. “Come on back up, please. I’ll be taking you to my office so we can further discussss your new profession.”

Alastor stares up at them with a singular raised brow, though he merely grins at Pentious’ words. He nods, humming to himself as he turns on his heels and starts moving to the elevator, heels clacking against the ground and stepping over the burnt cinders of the dummies.

Both of them turn toward the elevator’s doors, and soon after, the doors open to let Alastor through, Pentious unable to hold back his grin as he slithers near, raising a brow. “If I may, what exactly _was_ that little light show back there? The runesss were something that I’ve never quite ssssseen before.” 

“Nor have I.” Nora holds her clipboard under an arm, staring at Alastor expectantly, her grin still not there, her face little more than a blank mask.

He glances between them, taking the look of curiosity and the look of vagueness on both of them. His grin twitches wider by an inch. “Oh, it really wasn’t much. I used a combination of alchemical and... _other_ symbols to make a quick conversion of energy.” He shrugs a little. “Some of them were rather made up, if I’m being entirely honest.”

“Made up, you say?” Pentious’s hood twitches, and a hand comes up to his chin. “Interesting...Nora?”

There was the soft scribbling of a pencil on a piece of paper but nothing else. Pentious then moves to straighten his bow tie, before moving toward the door, pulling it open. “If you don’t mind, I’d be fassssscinated to hear more up in my office. It won’t take long to get there, just a quick elevator ride down to the lowest level.”

“Of course. I’d be happy too answer any questions you have.” Alastor gives Nora another glance as Pentious turns his back, like he’s laughing inside, and then follows the Overlord. “When using sigils in magic, you don’t have to be _overly_ specific. It simply has to make sense in the end.”

Nora shifts upon seeing that grin, her fingers clenching down ever so slightly on the clipboard, and within her mask, her teeth grit. But after a moment, she merely follows after, quiet, silent, her eyes fixed on Alastor’s back, still trying to make sense of what she saw. What she continues to see. 

Pentious’s head tilts as the group walk back through the corridor, past the other chambers, still full of soldiers going through the routines of training, his voice echoing slightly through the empty hall. “While that is true, I was under the impression that when it comes to magic, it has to be guided through those sigils, a bit like the alphabet, in a ssssense. If you do claim to be making up new sigils, it would be the equivalent of making up new letters, would it not?”

Alastor laughs, softly, but his voice rings out in the hall anyways. “Oh, it’s a bit more complicated than that. When you’re using magic, it isn’t simply _stringing_ letters together to make a word. You _may_ do that, if you want to, but, well, at least what _I_ do - it’s closer to making _sentences.”_ He chuckles again, unable to help himself. “Putting things together that have _meaning_ rather than trying to _make_ meaning from things, if that makes any sense.”

“Hmm...Interesssting. I susssspect that this method is...How do I put this...” He taps his chin, tilting his head to glance at him out of the corner of his eye, grinning. “Sssself taught?”

“Mm.” Alastor catches his look and raises a hand, wiggling it gently. “Sort of. Mostly self taught. I can’t claim all the glory for that one.”

“Oh?” His brow raises. “Who taught you?”

“My mother.” His grin widens exponentially, pride and genuine happiness filtering into his face for perhaps the first time Pentious had seen him.

His brow raises further, and his tongue flickers out, but he turns his head back around with nothing more than a soft hum. “Hmm. Quite the mother, I ssssuppose. Bet she didn’t think you’d end up using it for _this_ sort of thing.”

“Hmm.” He considers it. “Could have. I mean...” He brings a hand to his chin. “She always did says power could go either way. It all depends on who wields it.”

“Smart woman, then. Sounds like quite the bricky sort, if she went out of her way to teach _magic_ to her son.” He finally reaches the end of the corridor and moves to open the door up, revealing the lobby to Sector F once more, and while there were a few stragglers, there seemed to be less soldiers milling about than before. The ones that were around noticeably go dead still the moment Alastor enters the room. The weight of the blood still staining his vest and shirt hits him again and he _smiles._ A few of the demons who stare too blatantly at him get a solid stare in return. He documents how they all look at him, either in fear or annoyance or anger. He wonders if any of them knows the demon he killed on impulse.

A few brave souls narrow their eyes, as if trying to challenge him, while others look away just as quick as they looked up. Pentious’s gaze seems to follow Alastor’s line of sight, and his tongue flickers in distaste, glaring towards his soldiers. “I don’t pay you all to have you ssstanding around trying to shake a flannin’ with the newest recruit, you know.”

There was a brief pause, and one of the soldiers pipes up. “Uh….You _don’t_ pay us at all.”

His hood flares outward and he raises himself up ever so slightly. “ _Exactly._ No one is to touch him, you hear me? _I_ will be the one to take care of it, not any of you. Underssstand?”

Alastor smirks at the words and looks away from the other people in the room to simply watch Pentious. He probably isn’t helping by watching them all anyways. Though he _did_ wonder what would happen if anyone _did_ try to go at him. He idly wonders what precisely “flannin’” meant. Sounded like roughhousing.

The soldiers go silent for a moment, some quivering in place like dogs that just got a boot to the ribs, while the ones that were more ready to start a conflict finally look away. One of them nods. “Yes, Sir.”

Pentious narrows his eyes before he lowers himself back down, his hood deflating back into place. “Good. Now get going. Off to your posts. _Now.”_

Without a word, the soldiers slowly split off, going their separate ways, until the lobby is completely empty. Pentious moves to shoot a glare towards Alastor, a softer one. “If they try anything, don’t kill them. I will deal with them myself. Are we clear?”

“Of course.” He softens his own grin to match Pentious’. “I’ll try and not injure them to the best of my abilities as well.”

“Conssssidering what I saw, that’s all I can ask of you.” He lets out a sigh, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose before lowering his hand. “Lets keep moving. We’ll have to go back into Sector E to reach the elevator again.”

“Of course, my dear.” Alastor nods and they continue walking, or slithering as the case may be. He holds a small laugh in, not wanting to be further scrutinized by the Overlord before him. It truly had been a while since he made a performance, hadn’t it? He was rusty.

It wasn’t long before they climbed back up the stairs (which Pentious surprisingly had no trouble climbing despite the lack of legs) and ascended back toward the cacophony of noise that was Sector E, it’s construction never seeming to stop, not even when Pentious himself entered the walkway, though the construction workers were quick to give him a wide berth, often accompanied by an assortment of greetings, often with a mixture of the title “Boss” or “Sir”, many of which Pentious seemed to acknowledge with a nod and a flick of the tongue. He kept his posture straight, arms tucked behind his back, while Nora herself was still quiet, still staring dead ahead, her posture completely stiff, bereft of the almost jovial amusement she seemed to have before. Alastor keeps his neutral humor on his face. He hums idly, if only to have something to listen to that isn’t as unpleasant as construction noises. A few people take a second glance at him, then quickly turn back to work. He keeps his eye on Nora. She evidently knows something. He could guess, but that’s all it’d be: guesses. Hopefully he’d find out sooner rather than later. It’d be difficult to get her alone outside of work, let alone make it seem casual.

Soon, it wasn’t long before they find themselves back into the elevator, Pentious making an effort to wrap up his coils a touch so he doesn’t take up too much room, a claw reaching out to press the button labeled “L”, to which the doors close and they begin their descent, passing by even more levels on their way down. Alastor once again crams himself into a corner, as far from the others as he could possibly manage, and stares out the glass to see the rest of the base. They pass through Sector F, though the majority of what he could see from here was a large mess hall, currently packed with demons. The next almost looks like parking garage, at least three full floor, laden with cars, trucks, motorcycles, and, on the third floor, some of the smaller airships meant for scouting. He tilts his head at a floor that looks more like a hotel rec room than anything else, laid out with sofas and table games and televisions. There was even a smoking area, with ventilation that supposedly kept the rest of the structure from flooding with the toxic fumes. After that, somewhat more sensibly, is a library, stocked with aisle upon aisle of texts and complete with a bored looking demon manning a front desk. The elevator stops on the next floor.

When the elevator doors open, Alastor is greeted by a sight he wasn’t quite expecting; for one thing, the floor was one giant carpet, decorated in a diamond-shaped pattern that seemed to crisscross with lines of black and fuchsia, looking quite soft and very well-kept, clean, with not so much of a hint of a stain or smudge to be seen. The walls almost seemed to curve towards the front of the room, again, patterned with that same scale-like wallpaper, lined with gold and black, though with the added hint of bright pink eyes painted into the middle of every single scale, giving an almost eerie look to it all. There was also a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, dangling with small transparent jewels. Most of the walls were riddled with decor, paintings, curtains, shelves of treasures and oddities, trinkets and glamor that almost seemed to sparkle when they caught the eye, and Alastor swore he could even spot a few stained tomes amongst the collection, glowing with a faint, but familiar set of sigils. At the front of the room was a massive desk, oaken, lined with a golden outline that took on that of a serpent trying to eat it’s own tail, the scales crusted with rubies while it’s eye was a glimmering sapphire, and littered on top of said desk was a massive open book, a stacked pile of papers, a desk lamp, and what looked to be one of those cute little perpetual motion desk ornaments in the shape of a bird. Two chairs sat in front of said desk, made of fine leather, though no gemstones to be seen, and there was even a small circular coffee table next to each, presumably to hold beverages. Pentious flashes a grin as he slithers out of the elevator’s doors, turning so as to face Alastor with a look of smug satisfaction, gesturing to the room around them. “Well? What do you think? I’ve been told by ssssome that it’s too flashy, but I tend to think it’s just flashy enough.”

“It’s definitely...” He searches for the word as he steps out, cutting off Nora (almost) absentmindedly as he looks about the room. “Ostentatious. There’s a lot going on, but I’d say that fits you.” He grins at him for a moment, then looks back to the paintings and treasures. His eye momentarily catches on the tomes, but he forces himself to look away, back to the chandelier and then the desk. “It’s quite the impressive horde you have here, almost like a dragon sitting amongst its gold. But this isn’t all of it, is it?” He raises a brow at him.

“Perhapsss it is, perhapssss it isn’t. After all, can’t go about flaunting off _too_ much; that will only cause the knights and thieves to come running with their swords and shields.” His hood rattles slightly in amusement. “Though, I will admit, I think I have a pretty good deterrent when it comes to that sort of thing.” His grin almost turns devious, and he moves to slither to the side of the elevator, where a very wide window, split in half due to the elevation shaft, stretches end to end from the left side of the room to the right. It was tinted a faint fuchsia color, and when Alastor leaned in to look through it, his eyes caught sight of it. A massive, _massive_ airship, hanging suspended by a spider’s web of metallic cranes, long jet-black fins lining the top of the blimp, the nose appearing to be a giant glass dome lined with an outline of golden gears, glittering in the light within the hanger, while the rest of the blimp was coated with a shiny blackened armor plating, shielding the vulnerable hide from bullets, rockets, or anything else that might come its way.

"Oh my..." Alastor leans further, one hand behind his back, and moves to adjust his monocle, only to recall it to be missing. He covers it by pushing his hair back slightly. Alastor had thought he'd seen the ships up close, but this... there were no words that could properly describe it. All he could say is that he rarely feels like an ant, and this is one of those moments. He chuckles softly. "I'd say that's more than a deterrent, dear. I can't even imagine how big just the canons are! It always looks so small from far away."

“Mmm...I’d say they’re at leasssst the size of a 2 story house. Maybe even a 3 story, depending on which canon I decide to use.” Pentious’s hood was now entirely flared out, the hat on his head copying his smug, toothy grin perfectly.

"Dear..." He chuckles through the word, not a slight bit nervous, simply considering the carnage that would come from the airship firing while indoors. Hopefully the building's supports would stay standing. "Anyone plotting against you has _no_ idea what they're up against."

“That’s the idea, Alassstor.” His grin grows so large that he swears his lips were close to reaching the rim of his hat, which also was smiling just as wide, if not wider. His eyes narrow, deviously, flashing a deep crimson as his claws steeple together. “You know what they say about the grasssss that hides the snake, don’t you?” 

"Bites you in the ankle if you aren't watching your step." He matches Pentious' smile again, appreciating the grin. "I do believe plenty a hero and villain have been slain by such a thing. You must have quite the patience, given how the media treats you."

“Of coursssse I do. Patience rewards those who manage to catch it, as I like to think.” He turns around to start slithering towards his desk, arms tucking behind his back. “After all, with patience comes perception, with perception comes cunning, and with cunning comes the entire game ssssimply falling into your lap.” He soon “sits” behind his desk, in that he coils up his lower half until his upper half is resting in the middle of the circle, his lower arms coming down to rest on the desk, grin dropping as his eyes flick upward to Nora. “Ah, yes, Nora, could you please take the reports of what you’ve written to be processed?”

Nora, who has been silent all this time, looks up toward Pentious, staring for a moment, before nodding. “Of course, Sir. Should I wait for you to signal me to come and guide Alastor back to his home?” 

“Indeed.”

She nods again, before turning to walk back towards the elevator, and soon, with a click of a button, the doors shut, and silence fills the air.

Alastor eyes the elevator doors for a moment before walking to one of the chairs and taking a seat. He leans back, favoring the left armrest, and folds his right leg over the other. He leans his chin in his palm and meet Pentious eye to eye. "So. How does the rest of this interview go, my dear?" He wonders, momentarily, if he can somehow still royally mess up at this point. Questions are wonderful until they aren't. 

Pentious stares at him for a moment, his grin having faded away, before he simply moves to open up the giant binder on his desk, flipping through a massive amount of papers before finally seeming to reach the correct one, leaning over to grab a pen and giving it a click. “Nothing like before. Jusssst simply a few questions I’d like to have answered. First off, if you’re comfortable with listing it, the exact date of your death.”

"Hmm." Typical question. No need to be guarded about it. "Friday the 13th, October, 1933." His grin sharpens, a touch sardonic. "Just a few months before they legalized booze again. So sad."

“Hmm.” There was a brief pause as he wrote it down. “And your birth date?”

"October 14th, 1899."

His eyes finally flick up towards him, eyes narrowing a touch. “You claimed yesterday to have been involved in World War One? What exactly did you operate as?”

"Infantry, and then later as part of the USASC - the United States Army Signal Corps." He waves a hand slightly. "I handled communications, for the most part. Warning people where not to go, where the shells were dropping, gas attacks, so on. All that while being shot at, of course."

“Mm. So you dealt with the strategic side of things. Good to know.” There was a brief pause as he wrote it all down. “Any other professions that you’ve had? Besides the War?”

"I was a butcher back home in New Orleans." His leg bounces softly, swaying almost. "That was before and after the War. Eventually, I quit to pursue reporting and entertainment on the radio, which I still do today. Little side jobs along the way include baking, running telegrams, store clerk, delivery services, customer services, repair services, minor electronic repairs, newspaper journalism, aaand...." His eyes roll about as he searches. "Stand up comedy, singing, and other musical performances."

There was a lengthy pause that contained little more than the faint sound of the pen sliding against the paper. Then, he finally looks up, eyes narrowing again. “Now, when the girl visited me, she told me that you were in need of protection after becoming the target of a certain Valentino. Can you tell me why exactly he’s been targeting someone like you?”

"Valentino's gang has been hustling me for running bad PR in my newscasts." Alastor exhales. "Won't let up until I give up my equipment, which I _won't._ " His eyes narrow in Pentious for a moment at the thought. "I've never personally seen Vox try anything with me, but apparently his men were trying to find me when they last were harassing Niffty. Makes sense he'd be after me since I'm not in his clutches as a newscaster, but it makes me suspicious as to the closeness of him and Valentino."

“Hmm...Curious..” He doesn’t immediately move to write that down, his pen flicking back and forth in his fingers before moving to actually start writing. “I usually don’t tend to sssspy on the likes of their thugs, but if you have suspicions, then it might be a possssibility to consider. How long has Valentino targeted you, exactly?”

"Hmm..." He trails off, then starts counting on his fingers. Two, three, five, seven.... "Seven years, technically. There was a gap of two years where they didn't do anything, and then they started up again about four years ago."

“Sssseven, you say? And you’ve managed to last all that time?” He raises a brow. “Forgive me for my ssskepticism, but not many people typically manage to get away from the likes of Valentino unscathed.”

"Turns out he's hopeless at triangulating my broadcasts." He rolls his eyes. "I could go anywhere between six months and a year without seeing a single one of his men at my door."

“Hmm....All the more reason to have Vox nearby...” He writes that down, before pausing. “...How exactly did you end up in the care of that girl? Did his men finally manage to catch up with you?”

"Sadly, yes. They brought more men this time. Guess they wised up since last time." He shifts his legs and brings his hands to his knees, lacing them together. "Long story short, they managed to kill me. After I killed three of the four of them. The other one didn't look too well off though."

“I see.” He scribbles something down. “And how did you wind up in the possession of a house that’s owned by the Emporium?”

He smirks. "Nothing passes by you, does it? Heheh. I know Rosie personally, so I called in a favor."

“Really now?” He tilts his head at that, brow raising. “And how did that happen?”

"We met back in the... '40s was it?" He thinks for a moment, then waves a hand. "I was down on my luck, she took pity on a poor sinner, and the rest is history. Turns out we have a lot of common interests."

“Hmmm...” His pen starts to write yet again. “A powerful ally you have there, Alassstor. A good one, at that; her influence over the economy of Hell is quite the sssstranglehold. Almost enough to rival mine.”

"Hahah! Oh, I've heard about it quite a bit. You've been a thorn in her side for years now, and she always needs someone to vent to about it." He shakes his head and sighs happily, watching him. "From what I gather, the both of you have a market in very different ways. You bring in the new and sleek, and she brings in the vintage and nostalgic. In a way, you both mirror each other. It's rather fascinating to see up close."

“I imagine it is. Though I can’t fault her for being nervous; she has shopping mallsss and 20% price sssales.” His own lips curl up in a smirk. “I have weaponsss that can level entire city ssstreets and reduce them to craters.”

"You'd also have at least half of Hell at your doorstep demanding your head." He chuckles again. "Run her out of business, fine. But she _does_ have the highest traffic stock coming from Earth."

“That I can’t deny.” He offers an idle shrug, before moving to write something else down. “Now, this is jussst to make sure the first day on the job doesn’t end in disaster. Do you have anything that would be dessscribed as...deal breakers when it comes to the concept of working with other people?”

"Hmmm, dealbreakers...." He taps his chin again, considering it. "You know, it's been a while since I've actually worked with others at all. But I think my only stipulation would be..." He cringes slightly. "Hellhounds. We've never gotten along down here. Might have something to do with my being a deer." Both a lie and not a lie. Not the full truth. He makes sure to not quite look at Pentious to make himself seem the slightest bit uncomfortable.

Pentious tilts his head after a moment. “Are we talking Hellhounds as in _born_ Hellhounds or souls that fell that happen to turn into Hellhounds?”

"Both, unfortunately." He shifts slightly.

“Hmm..” He jots that down a touch. “Very well. I don’t have that many on my staff so that should be an easy ssssnipe. One last thing...” He glances up towards him, his hood rattling a touch. “You ssssaid that you were a serial killer later on in life. You offered me an esssstimate of your killing sprees yesterday, but if you could give me a more detailed summary. Your title, your reason for killing, how you killed them, how you hid from the police, etc. And if they ever caught you.”

"Ah, curious are you?" His grin curls and he leans forward. "I only got my name post mortem. They call me the New Orleans Butcher, presumably after my previous employment. I had a few different methods for killing, but the usual one was an ice pick or similarly shaped knife or instrument into the base of the skull. If it didn't kill them immediately, they wouldn't be able to move. Never any drugs or poisons. And as for why and how I wasn't caught?" His eyes narrow and he pauses for a moment. He wanted to see the reaction for this. "I was a cannibal. There usually weren't any leftovers besides bone and certain organs, which I could toss to the swamp when they built up. Outside of that, I started because I was _bored._ Terribly so."

Pentious merely raises a brow, and his lips curl into a smirk, one that showed off his teeth. “Cannibal, you say? Not exactly rare, but certainly interesting.” He moves to write it all down, his tail idly starting to thump against the carpet. “I assume that no one ever suspected a thing? Considering you managed to still be a radio host.”

"Oh, I was the life of the city. Everyone loved me." He leans back again. "The quirky, ambitious boy who would lend a hand any time of day without being asked." He laughs quietly. "Oh, they must've been _shocked_ by the reports. First I'm murdered by a bunch of cops, then they go to my house to investigate or mourn or whatever the case may be, and what do they find? Ah! My dinner, still on its hook. How embarrassing." He shakes his head at himself, chuckling further.

“I’m sure you must’ve been laughing all the way down, then.” Pentious’s hood shivers a touch, and his grin doesn’t move an inch. “I know I certainly would be if I was in your position. Granted, i think I would’ve went about serial killing in a way that was more....dramatic. For the sake of the pressss, I’m sure you understand.”

"Oh, please. Give me some credit. I made the whole state feel like we were haunted." He tilts his head forward, one brow raised. "People going missing in not just Louisiana, but New Orleans? And not just randoms off the street, but anyone? A few politicians, both women and men, tourists, veterans, businessmen. No one was safe. And that went on for years. No bodies. Just-" Alastor makes a popping noise and wiggles his hands. "Gone. It may have taken time to get to that point, but if you could feel the tension as it grew...." He shakes his head. "There's nothing like it."

“Oh, really?” His grin actually grows at that, and he chuckles. “Went about prowling the streets and snatching people up, did you? Or was there another method for you when it comes to picking your prey? Did you take them directly to your house? Or did you slit their bellies in the woods?”

"It varied from person to person, but I can tell you I never stalked anyone. I find it distasteful. I'd rather invite them somewhere or murder them on the spot. The impulsive ones were a bit annoying to deal with, but they surely got the blood pumping."

“Care to name a few? I’ve always been interested in what exactly drives serial killers to kill a person, nevermind on impulse.” He chuckles a touch. “Though that might just be the era I lived through talking; murders and killers were frankly running rampant through the streets and the common public ate it up like a soap opera.”

"I can only imagine, after hearing about the old Ripper." He shakes his head and leans his jaw on his knuckles, crimson fingernails glimmering slightly in the light of the room. "I'm not kidding when I said I killed out of boredom. I told you my first real kill was my father, and he had it coming, but I got away with it surprisingly easy. So I figured I'd try again to see what happens. And that just confused people even more. So it became a game, and as long as the police kept me occupied, I didn't kill. Then I'd get bored and I'd kill again." He hums for a moment. "There was a man I killed in one of the local parks. Had to slit his throat, incredibly messy. Police flooded the scene in the morning, next day I left a head with a letter telling them how boring they were, and so on. That was the first time I confirmed that I killed all the missing people."

“And what made you decide to kill this man, exactly?”

"Hmm." His brows draw together in thought. "He looked like a challenge. Easily a foot and a half taller than me. Could have been a body builder." He shrugs.

A chuckle makes Pentious’s shoulders shake for a moment, and his eyes narrow, grin growing almost cheeky. “So you decided to slit his throat and cut off his head for the sake of wanting a thrill..” He moves to close the binder and opens a drawer to put it back into it’s proper place, before moving to open another drawer and pulls out a large piece of paper, wrapped up in a scroll-like fashion. He places it down on the desk, then slowly unfurls it, revealing a detailed map of the entire City. “Well, I hope I can provide more than whatever that old fool gave you.”

"Oh, of course. But I didn't leave _his_ head. I left one of the others. To confuse them. And prove a point, I suppose." He leans forward at the sight of the map. "Starting to plot your next victim's demise?"

“Heh. In a way.” His tongue flickers out, and his grin only seems to grow. “But you won’t be involved in such thingsss. Not yet. Consssidering your little stunt with that magic show you performed, as well as the fact that you’ve been running from one of the most deadly mob bosses in the entire Pentagram and only got caught _once,_ I think I know a good way to ssstart off your career here.” He traces a claw around to the East side, then taps at a small pink circle drawn around the ink. “This is one of many ssssmuggling sites in which outer ssssources drain resources from the world above. Considering the nature of the cargo, being that of weapons, ammunition and such, I cannot let the likes of thieves or gangs even come clossse to getting their hands on them. This cargo needs guards, escorts, to guide them where they need to go. Get the picture?”

"Ah, yes." Not exactly murdering, but it'd be something to do. And it's not entirely thoughtless work. Maybe he'd get jumped along the way. That'd be interesting. He looks up from where Pentious is pointing. "I know the East side rather well. Shouldn't be all too difficult if we go about it the right way."

“That’s good to know.” He glances up toward him with a slight smirk. “And before you ask, yes, you have permission to kill anyone that tries to attack you or the cargo. Having _their_ blood on your teeth means nothing to me.”

"Well, I'd hate to spoil another suit, but I suppose blood does come out quite cleanly from these." Alastor chuckles darkly. "I'll make sure I don't get anything on our luggage."

“That’s all I can ask for now. I’ll be sure to give you a more detailed summary of the job when you actually come in to work, the types of routes you should take, the men you’ll be working with, where you’ll be heading precisely, that sort of thing. I’m merely telling you this now so you don’t get your hopes too high.” He starts to roll up the map, his grin dropping into a stern glance, not quite angry, but nonetheless firm. “Just because I’ve accepted you into a more private line of work does not mean you will automatically be dropped into the most ideal job right away. You’ll have to prove that you are willing to climb through the ranks and actually commit to working for me first. That you’re willing to be patient.”

Patience was never one of Alastor's virtues. He grins nonetheless. "Of course, my dear! You run a business, and I can't expect a business to bend to the whims of one individual." Maybe he should bring up his boredom again. It'd be harder to stave off given circumstances. Hmm. Maybe another time. He tilts his head. "Do you think I should apologize to the man I killed today? Or would that be a bad idea? I don't quite do apologies all that often." 

“Hmm.” Pentious waves a hand almost dismissively. “If you actually want to, go ahead. Not like I can ssstop you.”

"I might try it out then. If I can ever find them again." He looks aside, considering how the others had looked in the halls. Even with Pentious telling them off, he could only imagine he'd have a difficult time with them. Rumors spread quickly too. It'd be interesting if they'd stop as soon as he properly met the demon. Another thought comes to him. "Oh, that reminds me. Niffty doesn't know anything about my past. I'd like to keep it that way, or at least be the one to tell her."

Pentious’s expression shifts into mild confusion, and he hums. “She doesn’t already know?”

"She doesn't. I usually don't tell people about any of this." His grin curls a little, both in vague amusement and slight confusion. "I do believe you're the only one in Hell to know, besides Rosie of course. I like having my secrets."

“Hmm.” His lips curl into a smirk and his hood twitches a touch. “Consider mysssself flattered.” He moves to tuck the map back into it’s proper drawer. “As long as you make it clear to Nora that you do not wish the girl to know, then I see no way that problems could arise on that front.”

"I imagined as such." He can't help but feel unsatisfied with the answer, though he understood that maybe even Pentious had a hard time telling the Whip Wraith of all people what to do. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he got the feeling she didn't like him.

His tongue flickers out for a moment, and he raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

Alastor grins at him. "Not at all. Just considering my words, you know." He should eat something when he gets home. Usually he doesn't slip as often as he has today. "Say. A little birdie told me you like tea. Any tips on breweries on the West side? Asking for a friend."

He blinks, as if not expecting that sort of thing, and his eyes narrow for a moment, before he responds. “I do know a few. They’re rather small businesses but they tend to have a good rep, and their prices are fair.”

"Mind telling the names? I may pay a visit or two during my walks, get to know the area a bit better."

“Hmmm...Well, there’s the River Lily, up near the Northern end of the West side. You can tell where it is thanks to the giant purple flower that’s on top of the roof. There’s also the Ebony Leaf, which I believe is a café that used to be a basement speakeasy near the center of the West side. Look for graffiti of black oak leaves on the sidewalk and simply follow the trail.” He tilts his head ever so slightly. “The one I prefer the most happens to be called the Early Rise, down near the edge of the West that’s just on the border to the North side. That one happens to be quite the place. A mixture of a tea and book shop, made from the remains of an old theater.”

The speakeasy immediately grabs his attention, and he's certain he's heard of it before. One of the more gentle places in Hell, if he recalled correctly. He'd never been, for obvious reasons. A tea and book shop though... Interesting. "I'll have to check them out some time. They sound rather intriguing."

“I’m sure you’ll find them enjoyable.” His tongue flicks, and his eyes glance upwards as the mechanisms of the elevator begin to whirr once more. “Hmm. Must be Nora.” He glances back down toward Alastor. “Anything else you want to know before we part ways for the day?”

“Hmm... How will we communicate in the future? Sending Nora may suffice, given Niffty lives in the same house as I, but I imagine you may have other methods.” He tilts his head.

Pentious can’t help but smirk a bit at that, and his hood slowly flares to it’s full length, eyes flashing crimson. Within an instant, Alastor can feel the snake mark hissing against the skin of his wrist, mere seconds before a voice, not his own, rings in his head. 

_This method shall prove to be effective, yes?_

Alastor tenses as he hears the mark hiss, waiting for a pinch from its fangs, and then sits upright as he hears _words_ in his mind. His ears perk, twitching at the odd sense. “That is...” He blinks a few times. “Yes, that will suffice.” His eyes narrow. “You have... an intriguing set of abilities, my dear fellow.”

Pentious’s grin only grows, and he lets out a chuckle, speaking aloud this time as his hood starts to deflate once more. “Why thank you. It’s sssomething I tend to take pride in, if you haven’t guessed.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t,” he chuckles. “Abilities like that should be expounded upon, not kept hidden away on a shelf.”

“Glad to hear you think so. Such destructive powers should not be wasted. Rather they should be _exploited,_ to their full potential.” His tongue flickers out, and he lets his claws glow with a soft crimson light. “What I wouldn’t have given to have such a thing in life. Don’t you agree?”

Alastor laughs at that, eyes narrowing mischievously. “I think I’ll _have_ to agree with you on that, seeing as there’s no other option on my end.”

Pentious narrows his eyes right back, grin turning into a mirror of Alastor’s own and his open claws slowly curl into a fist. “Cute.” 

There was a soft ding, and the elevator doors open to reveal Nora, standing there, moving to step out of the door and walking toward the desk. “I delivered the reports as you requested, Sir.”

Pentious’s eyes flick to Nora, and the grin he wears on his face shifts into a smaller, more pleased one. “Ah, excellent. Good to hear.” He gestures towards Alastor with a flick of the hand. “If you would be so kind as to escort our new recruit back topside? Our business has concluded for the day.” 

She nods once, her stance still as rigid and as quiet as before. “Of course, Sir.”

Alastor stands from his seat, smoothing invisible wrinkles on his clothes, and then extends a hand to Pentious. “It’s been quite the pleasure meeting you, my dear. I look forward to working with you.”

Pentious moves to “stand” as well, his coils slowly sliding against the carpet as he does so, moving to take his hand and give it a good shake. “And I look forward to seeing you work. I do hope the little sssslip-up we both had earlier won’t be an issue later on.”

Alastor nods minutely. “I hope so as well.” He watches him for perhaps a moment longer than usual and catches something more sincere in his eyes. He pulls back and rubs at his wrist, turning around to Nora. Nora merely nods towards him and begins to start walking back towards the elevator, silent all the while. Pentious watches her for a moment, tongue flickering out, but then simply moves to start rummaging through his desk again. Alastor follows Nora into the elevator without another word, only turning when he’s fully inside. He watches Pentious as the glass closes and the elevator starts moving to the top floor. Strained silence fills the compartment. He pretends not to notice for a moment, then looks up at Nora. “I have a small request to make of you.”

She almost seems intent on not responding for a moment, before her head slowly turns to look towards him. “...What is it?”

“Niffty doesn’t know anything about my past,” he says simply, “and I know I may have said a few things in passing, and Sir Pentious may divulge you in more as one of his higher employees. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to tell Niffty about myself in my own time. Having someone else tell her might be... inadvisable at the moment.”

She stares for a moment, the mask that displays her features kept almost disturbingly blank, before she simply nods. “I will say nothing to her. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” Not that someone’s word means much in Hell, but he respects it nonetheless. And he isn’t about to make a deal for something so trivial. “I won’t tell her about your other persona either. You have my word.”

“Hmm. Thank you.” She nods again, before moving to look forward once more. 

Not a word was said afterwards.

•••

Lights are everywhere, bouncing against glass, bursting from signs and halogen lamps and the underside of overhangs, making the pedestrians on the street sparkle in their crystal necklaces and ruby brooches and satin textiles. Cars pass by, freshly washed or painted, passengers all laughing and roughhousing within, wheels spinning eyes in hypnotic patterns while fins rise up in the back. A full bottle of cognac falls from an upper floor of one of the many buildings and smashes into the head of some poor lizard demon who stumbles about before finding a smooth, white marble wall to lean on. The sidewalks are full of people, full of pockets of groups with just a few inches on all sides around them, and the roads are wide enough to accommodate four lanes but only house three, so the conglomeration of demons spills into the road in places, drunkenly or otherwise.

The color of the lights around the strip ease from a yellow gold to red to purple to cobalt blue, the streets all heading toward or around a massive casino complex with bright, silvery script spelled out in hundreds of thousands of little LED lights. _The Moonlight Blitz._ A crescent moon, a pastel blue wraps around the words, the ‘O’s notably drawn out as hearts in pink. The building stands above almost all the others around it, easily reaching fifteen stories. It was a building of excess, as any experienced demon in the area would say, and, even at the end of the longest street leading away from it, one could spot the lavish, thick curtains behind the windows of the top twelve floors. There is even a small fleet of valets in front waiting for patrons to hand them the keys to some of the fanciest cars in all of Hell.

To the inexperienced eye, like that of one Charlie Magne, The Moonlight Blitz is the candlelight torch drawing the moth into fatal clutches.

“Woaaaah! How did I _not_ see something like this from my room?” Charlie can’t help but crane her head up in an effort to catch a glimpse of the massive casino roof, her eyes wide with fascination and awe, her grin so bright and vibrant that if people around her weren’t desperately trying to avoid getting out of her way, they probably would be giving her quite the few looks. She glances down to her left, at Dazzle, then to her right, at Razzle, her fists waving through the air in excitement as she waits for the crosswalk above her head to turn green. “Have you ever seen anything like this?! I know I haven’t! I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen what the inside of a casino looks like, but I bet it looks amazing! What do you think? Should we try it out? Should we go inside?” She seems to catch herself for a moment, her grin rapidly vanishing, before returning, albeit a bit more nervous. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine! Totally fine! It’s ok if you don’t! I get it! No pressure!”

Razzle rolls his eyes and offers her a thumbs up, then glances at Dazzle, who is still ogling the bright lights - or, rather, a specific set of bright lights around one of the nearby sweetshops. His eye is big and round as he stares at the baked goods behind the glass. Razzle stares for a moment as well, then reaches over and digs a finger in his shoulder. He jumps up, glancing between the two sheepishly, face flushing. He waves a hand horizontally and gestures to the shop and then his stomach.

Charlie blinks as she glances at Dazzle, her eyes flicking toward the sweetshop, frowning after a moment, glancing back down toward him. “You’re hungry already? But we just had lunch! You had an entire plate of French fries all to yourself!”

He shrugs, face flushing further, and he stays there, hiding amongst himself. He waves his hands again, both of them this time, and Razzle snorts, shaking his head in response. He makes a small gesture, spinning his hand in a circle before pantomiming a look of bliss and sleepiness. Dazzle slaps a hand to his face, embarrassed at being called out, and then waves at the street sign as the light changes.

Charlie can’t help but roll her eyes even as she moves to grab both of their hands in her own, starting to make her way across the asphalt, and while normally the cars would continue to inch along the crosswalk regardless of the people that might be trying to make their way to the other side, this time they remain perfectly still, not so much as making a peek aside from the idle rumble of the engines. “Dazzle, if you really want to, we can get sweets later; right now, I just want to see what there is to see out here! Ice cream won’t go anywhere! It’ll probably exist forever as far as I know! But stuff like this?” She momentarily lets go of one of their hands to wave around to the lights around them. “Who knows? It could all be gone by the next Purge!”

Traffic resumes as they reach the other side, a few of the valets giving them delighted smiles. “Thank you for visiting the Moonlight Blitz! Please enjoy your stay.”

Razzle and Dazzle glance between the valets, particularly the one that had talked, before grinning widely at them in thanks. Dazzle looks back to Charlie and gives her a thumbs up and a sheepish nod, continuing the conversation where they had left it. He mimics a cone and tosses it over his shoulder.

Charlie herself glances over at the valets and gives them a cheerful grin, before glancing back down towards Dazzle. “I promise we’ll get ice cream later. Find the best place in this side of the City.” She again lets go of one of their hands to put her own up to her mouth, as if trying to trade a secret. “I’ll even give you a large cone. The biggest size they have. Pinky promise.” She holds out her pinky finger to him with a grin.

His eyes go wide, pupil dilating, and he brings his pinky up to hers, shaking it once. Razzle rolls his eyes, chuckling silently. He looks around the sidewalk again, waiting for his other half to once more get over his infatuation with sweets. Not that he had any space to talk, though.

“Ok, ok, we wasted enough time! Come on, I want to see how exactly one of these places work! Maybe if we’ll get lucky we can get the big numbers!” Charlie is quick to grab both of their hands, starting to make her way towards the walkway to the actual entrance, where a little bit of a line was forming in order to get in through the polished glass doors. Said walkway happened to be indicated by a long red carpet as well as a series of poles with loops of black rope chaining them together, a pair of burly looking pig demons lining both sides of the entrance, which presumably were there to act as bodyguards.

Razzle huffs slightly at the sight of the bodyguards, annoyed at the opportunity of opening the door for Charlie being taken from them, but then turns to Dazzle and sticks out his tongue. Dazzle retaliates in kind.

“Hey, hey, don’t go being rude. These people are just doing their jobs, it’s fine.” Charlie moves to pat Razzle on the head. “Besides, they’ll probably just take one look at me and let me in anyway. I mean, who could not recognize these?” She presses both of her pointer fingers to her cheeks and flashes a grin.

The two chuckle, calming down and looking around the place, pointing to a few of the fancier lights as the line shifts forward a few steps. The people in front and behind them give them a solid few feet of space around them.

Charlie tilts her head a bit. “Good question. I dunno what exactly they’ll have in there. I know a little bit about casino games from what Mom used to tell me about how they work. Mostly the ones with the cards like Poker, Blackjack, 52 pickup, things like that. And we all know I’m a master of those!” She flashes another grin, and when she sees the flicker of the doors up ahead opening, she can’t help but glance towards it. Her grin immediately falls, and her expression twists into begrudging exasperation, shoulders falling into a slouch. “Ohhh nooo...Why _her?”_

Razzle and Dazzle stop and turn back to her, frowning nervously before looking back at the door, which had slide shut again. They jump as the doors just beside them burst open to a loud round of cackles, three people all clad in neon pink and green stroll out of the casino, chips and coins spilling out of fancy felt bags with a scattering of eyes printed across them. The lead, with long white hair that looks more like tentacles than anything else, holds a single bag, lime green scarf bouncing on her shoulders.

"-actually thought he could beat me! Oh, if only we weren't in a casino, am I right?" Her eyes pulse the same green color of her scarf.

The other two giggle and answer in the affirmative. Razzle and Dazzle tense, slinking closer to Charlie out of habit.

Charlie moves to place her hands on their heads, giving them a quick pat, keeping her eyes on the trio as they begin to draw closer. “It’s ok, no worries. It’s fine. Just gotta...prepare myself a bit.” She takes a breath, eyes closing as she does so, before her face snaps back into a grin, lifting a hand in the air to wave. “Heeeey, Helsa! Long time no see! It’s nice to see you! How you been?”

The group stops dead in their tracks and Helsa turns, a scowl on her face for half a moment before she smiles back with twice as much venom. Her hair writhes as she saunters up to them, only separated by a rope. "Oh, Charlotte. It really has been a while! I'm doing great, thank you for asking. And I see daddy let you out of the castle for the first time this century. Good for you!" She snickers.

Razzle and Dazzle bristle.

Charlie lowers her arms back to her sides, and she lets out a slightly forced giggle, her grin still just as vibrant as before. “Eheh, Yeaah, you know how he is sometimes. Nice to see you actually changed your hair! It looks good! I’d never be able to get it to look like _that!”_ She glances back toward the other two demons who were with her, smiling at them as well. “And who are they? Friends of yours?”

The one to her left narrows a singular golden eye, glaring down from close to seven feet, ebony hair curling closely to their face. The one to the right huffs and crosses her arms, blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail and little quills shivering on her shoulders.

Helsa chuckles, gaze burrowing into Charlie's. "They're Donna and Dazey. From school, though I imagine you've forgotten all that by now. But yeah, thanks!" She pushes her hair up like they're mere curls and it all moves like eels reacting to a temperature change. "Just had them done this week. How about you? Did you ever chop all your hair off, or are the parents still telling you what to do?"

Charlie feels her cheeks start to burn as she feels a hot wash of shame start to curl down her spine, both Razzle and Dazzle wincing heavily at the slip-up, and she can only respond by having her lips curl harder in a bigger grin, a hand curling into a fist. “O-Oh, uh, Donna! Dazey! Right, right, I-It’s been a long time and I just...” She trails off, meekly giving the two a little wave, and their scathing glares is enough to make her hand quickly flip shut, eyes glancing back to Helsa. “A-and no, I...I didn’t.” She lifts her hair up from the back of her neck. “It’s still there. And it’s there because I _like it like this_ and _not_ because of my dad.”

“Glad to hear that. He’s pretty closeted for a king. I’d have hated if he actually did anything to you.” She laughs, playing it off like a gentle tease rather than the insinuation it is.

Razzle stomps a hoof on the ground and the bystanders around them freeze before moving away from the group.

Helsa’s brows arch and she looks down at the two goat demons. “Oh, right! Your little guardian goats. Oh, they’re so adorable. What are their names again? Roodle and Doodle? Ronny and Donny? Ra-”

Charlie’s grin wobbles a bit, and she has to drop her hair before Helsa sees both her hands clenching into fists. “Eheh, Razzle and Dazzle, Helsa. Their names are Razzle and Dazzle. You know, my two best friends since I’ve had when I was 8? My two best friends that you tried to steal from me when you first saw them and kept screaming that they were _yours_ until Dazzle bit you when you kept grabbing his horn?” Her grin has regained some of it’s strength.

“Oh, right. I almost forgot about that.” She grimaces and shoots Dazzle a quick glare, at which he tenses. “Well, anyways. We just won the tables at blackjack and craps. Practically cleared all the boards!” She laughs again. “And seeing as this _is_ Hell, and we’re currently walking around with who knows how much money, I think I’ll take my leave. Tell daddy I said hi!” They back away as the other two snicker and turn away to one of the valets.

Charlie can’t help but feel something in her composure start to twitch a bit, a proverbial finger that slowly loosens itself from the death grip the hand had curled into, and her grin grows, lifting up a hand to wave, voice almost sickeningly cheerful. “Of course! Tell your parents I said hi too! And your brother!” 

Everyone who was around them immediately freeze. Even Razzle and Dazzle go dead still.

Helsa freezes, all snickers dying, and slowly turns her head over her shoulder to glare at her. Eyes and fangs were threatening to pop up over her forehead and cheeks. “You take that back, you prissy pink eyed bitch. Before I _make you.”_

“Ah, ah, ah.” She wags a finger in the air before her arms cross, and her teeth start to grow pointed, still smiling. “You know what the rules are, Helsa. No fighting, remember? Or did you forget? I mean, I don’t blame you. After all, we haven’t seen each other in a while. I’m willing to push it under the rug.”

Her shoulders and the rest of her body move to twist around and she storms back toward her, one claw brandishing in the air, between them. She stops just on the other side of the rope and leans over it into Charlie’s personal space. “There are more ways of getting back at people in Hell than raising your own fist to them. You may be the Princess of Hell, daughter of Lucifer, but there are plenty of idiots down here willing to take a swing at you for enough gold. Now: _take it back.”_ A cluster of teeth on her cheekbone open up and hiss at her, all the eyes on her face opening and glower at her.

Charlie’s eyes can’t help but narrow, and her hands clench into fists at her sides, feeling a twinge of anger bubbling up in her chest. The sheer audacity. It’s practically astounding. Her smile doesn’t drop once. Her eyes flash a deep, alarming crimson. 

“No.”

The crowd shifts about her at the sight, most people trying to pretend they weren’t watching. Helsa’s chin raises, eyes glowing back at her, but she takes a breath and steps back, rolling her jaw. She watches Charlie silently, glaring, clearly wanting to fight but knowing the consequences of doing so outweighed the satisfaction. Her eyes narrow again. “You’ll regret this.” She turns stiffly and stalks off, passing through the other two demons and nearly knocking Donna over in the process.

“Yes, yes, definitely. Try not to get stabbed on the way home.” She gives a little wave, her eyes finally fading back to normal.

Helsa fades into the crowd and everyone slowly returns to what they were doing. Razzle scuffs a hoof on the ground and Dazzle shifts closer to Charlie. The line continues to inch forward.

Charlie feels a tug on her pant leg, and she looks down to see Dazzle looking up at her, his eyes moving from where Helsa was and back to her, before mimicking the gesture of lifting and placing a hat on top of his head with a hand. She lets out a sigh and shakes her head, bending down briefly to whisper to him. “No, no. No telling Dad, ok. Either of you. I don’t want him to freak out and tighten the leash the moment he thinks some grubby bounty hunter is gonna shake a switchblade in my direction, ok?“

The two trade glances, hesitating for a moment before nodding. Razzle mimics the hat Dazzle had made, but this time puts a hand through it and mimics a mouth moving, then gestures in Helsa’s direction, then taps his chest, then waves at Charlie.

Her expression drops into a frown, an intense one, a distant one, and her hands curl again into fists. She lets out a sigh. “Yes, I meant it. I don’t care how long it’s been, and I don’t care about Helsa.” She folds her arms. “Besides, I doubt she’ll actually do anything. Not if she values her cushy little life down here in the lap of luxury.” She moves to stand, turning away from the two. “She’s been getting too cocky. Forgetting who my dad is. Who _I_ am. And if she wants to remember so badly, I say fucking let her.”

“Er, Miss Magne?” One of the demons in front of the doors waves to her. “How about we get you inside?” The entirety of the line ahead of her shifts over to the side to give her space to walk.

She blinks at the sudden change in the line, at the pathway opened up to her, and realizes the glower she’s been holding on her face, taking a moment to take a deep breath and chase away the bubbling heat that was crawling under her skin, the burning that was filling her cheeks, and lets a grin come to her lips, lifting a hand to wave. “Thanks! I appreciate it! Come on, you two!” She starts to make her way past the line with a slightly hurried gait.

Razzle and Dazzle trade another glance with each other, then shrug and follow her into the building. The bouncer that had called to the waves off his partner as he tentatively raises a stamper. He opens the doors and smiles to the three of them.

“We hope you enjoy your time at the Moonlight Blitz, Princess.”

As they pass through the doors, the variety of light dulls down to that orangish gold they had first seen on the strip, glinting off golden railings and red and white loveseats that lead into the main lobby, flanked on either side with cash desks exchanging money for casino chips. Further beyond them is a small set of stairs leading to the main floor, full of tables playing through blackjack, craps, roulette, poker, and dozens of others. She can just barely see the slot machines on the left hand side of the floor. Charlie’s eyes can’t help but widen at the scene, at the extravagance of it all, and though it wasn’t _nearly_ as dripping with wealth as some of the other places she’s seen over the years, she still can’t help but find it beautiful all the same. Sometimes less was more, and in terms of golden decor, this time definitely fit the bill. She flashes a grin down at both Razzle and Dazzle, before moving to walk further into the lobby, eyes scanning for a reception desk. The only desks available are the cash desks, and one of the attendants on the left waves to her with a cheery smile. “Miss Magne! What a pleasure it is to have you with us today. If there’s anything you need, please feel free to ask.”

She blinks, turning to face the attendant, and waves right back, moving to walk over with a grin. “Ah, thanks! This place is really beautiful, I have to say! Love the decor! Um, as for questions, well, I’ve never done any gambling stuff before so, could you give me some tips on the best way to start? Like, what is up with the chip things? And what do you think I should try first? The card games or some of the more fancy machines?”

“Oh, of course!” She grins widely in return, eyes a full orange and teeth as sharp as knives. “All of the games in Moonlight Blitz operate with our tokens.” She pulls six circular chips and four rectangular cards out from under her desk, all of different colors. “Since Hell’s currency is a bit complicated we take all the coins - all the Kings, Dukes, Princes, Marquises, Counts, Knights, and Presidents - and convert them into units for the chips. About ten Presidents is worth one unit here, which are these white coins.” She pushes the coin forward. “Red coins are five units, blues are ten, greens are twenty-five, orange are fifty, and black is one hundred. One hundred units is about a Marquise. These cards are higher cost. Purple is five hundred, yellow is one thousand, blue - light blue - is two thousand, and brown is five thousand. Five thousand is about five Kings, or every one thousand is about one King. Does that make sense?”

“Huh. I think so.” She nods after a moment. “I’m guessing these chips are what people gamble with, right? And the more chips you win, the more money you can cash back?”

“Precisely!” She beams, overly enthusiastic. “You can convert between Hell’s currency and tokens in both ways, and can even leave with tokens if you so desire. Chips will enter a pool which participants can put any amount or combination of tokens into. Once they are entered, you cannot take them back. If no one at the table wins, the house - the casino - collects instead. At the end of the day, you can head to the desks on the other side of the room and they will convert your tokens back into Hell currency. If you decide to leave with tokens, you can take them to any Valentino owned enterprise and use them there. These are marked with the Moonlight logo-” She holds up one of the cards, showing a faint holo-image of a crescent moon in the middle of it. “-but they are valid in other casinos. Also, heh, almost forgot, the slot machines dispense tokens when you win. Most other casino’s dispense Hell currency, but we’re in the middle of testing out a new system, so if you find your way over there, feel free to offer a review of how the slots worked for you.”

Charlie takes a moment to process the information, nodding along. “Ok, ok, I think I get the idea now. Thanks for filling me in on how it all works.” She flashes a grin. “Uh, I use those machines to get the chips, right?” She points over towards one of them in question.

“Oh, no, honey. We at the desks give you chips. You provide Hell currency and we provide you with chips.” The attendant’s grin stretches slightly. “That’s a condom dispenser.”

“Ah-“

Everything in her mind comes crashing to a halt. 

She feels her ears start to burn, her chest clench, and she doesn’t need a mirror to know how hard her cheeks are glowing a bright, bright red. 

“..A-A what?”

“A condom dispenser.” She can’t help but chuckle, still smirking. “This is a Valentino enterprise after all.”

“I..I see.” She slowly lowers her hand from where it had been pointing, moving it to her mouth in a fist as she tries to clear her throat, fanning herself for a moment, her face still throbbing with heat. “Ok, ok, that’s, uh...fine. I can handle that. Definitely.” She shakily moves to grab her wallet out from her jacket, popping it open. “L-Let’s start with this.” She moves to place down at least 3 Marquise coins, sparing a glance down at Razzle and Dazzle.

Razzle himself was about as red as a tomato, mirroring Charlie herself, covering his eyes with his hands only to peek through his fingers, while Dazzle was clutching his stomach, head tipped back in a silent wheezing fit of laughter.

“That will afford you three hundred units. Would you like that split among coins in a particular way? Most of the slot machines take five units or more to play, though if you are looking to play cards or roulette, you may want some single units when you’re feeling out the game.”

“Uhh...L-Let’s go with, say...Maybe 2 of the black cards, and...divide that remaining hundred into blue chips. Is that right? Is that how it works?”

She chuckles lightly. “Chips, deary. But yes, I can do that.” She pulls another black chip out from under the desk, along with nine more blues, stacking them on top of their respective colors and sliding them closer to Charlie. “Does this look alright?”

She takes a moment to count them over, nodding after a moment. “Y-Yeah. Looks good. Uh, th-thank you.” She flashes a weak grin, trying to ignore the way her cheeks still burn.

“Anytime, Princess Magne.” The demon sweeps the three Marquises to her side of the desk and drops them into a small receptacle beside her, which is steadily filling with coins with all sorts of sigils on them. She starts putting away the other coins and cards. “Best of luck playing.”

Charlie nods and moves to collect the chips, tucking them into the pocket of her jacket before turning to walk away from the lobby, a hand darting upwards to shield her eyes from one of the condom dispensers as she walks by, her cheeks already starting to burn even harder as she walks towards the room with the slot machines. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..”

Razzle rubs his face, still fighting the blush as well, and Dazzle continues to silently chuckle at the both of them. Charlie makes it down to the main floor without incident, passing poker and blackjack tables along the way. There’s a tense atmosphere to the place, some tables quiet, some occasionally bursting into loud cheers, but there’s always a dull sense of chatter coming from everywhere at once. The floor plan is entirely open, so the sounds of the slot machines readily spill into the card games. Bars cling to the corners and dot the area at even increments, bartenders mixing drinks for waiters to take and waiters returning with empty glasses.

The waiters are... incredibly scantily clad. Some wear simple dresses with slits down the side or shear covering their chests so their undergarments showed. Others wear bikinis. Just. _Just_ bikinis. Some of them wear tight leggings and unbuttoned shirts, some mini skirts, some booty shorts. Most wear heels regardless of attire, though a few get away with flats or dress shoes.

Charlie feels the back of her neck start to burn, feels her ears _throbbing_ , and she does her damndest to avoid making eye contact with any of them as she weaves her way through the sea of people and ringing slots in an effort to find an empty one, her shoulders hunched, her arms folded, desperately trying to keep her composure despite the way her face felt as if it was on fire. She could handle this. She could handle this. There’s no way she couldn’t, she was the god damn princess of Hell for crying out loud, she couldn’t be seen running out of a casino blushing like a damsel; that would turn her into the laughing stock of Hell. She would be fine. She would be fine as long as _none of them try to flirt with her._

_Oh God what if they try to flirt with her?_

Dazzle pats her leg, giving her a big smile, genuine, and a thumbs up. He nudges Razzle, who nods in agreement, though his face also remains burning. He points to his eyes and then waves a hand to the rest of the room without actually looking. She can’t help but grin down at them, giving the both of them a thumbs-up back. She looks up just in time to see a slot machine that was vacant and moves to stand in front of it, looking it over, thankful that the bulk of such a thing was enough to at least block out most of the waiters that were passing by in front of her. The slot machine has a variety of symbols currently displayed on it: a seven, a bundle of cherries, and several different combinations of the word “BAR.” A score sheet at the top shows the possible winnings, each line showing three in a row of each symbol, with sevens at the top and cherries on the bottom. Singular cherries and two cherries also count as wins. A sign says “5 units per pull.”

“Ok...Ok, seems simple enough.” She fishes out one of the blue chips, looking it over. “And these cost ten...So I’ll get two pulls on the lever.” She takes a deep breath, letting her thumbnail rub over the segmented edges of the chip’s rim, looking over the machine for a slot to put the chip in. Below the symbols, on the side near the lever, there’s a yellow square painted on the slot machine with the words “INSERT TOKENS HERE” written above a coin slot. “Ah, there we go.” She carefully inserts one of the tokens, and as it goes in, the slot machine lights up, the lever giving a little shiver as the internal mechanisms rumble to life. She blinks a touch, before moving to put her hands on the lever’s handle, struggling for a moment before managing to pull it down, letting it spring back up the moment the pictures inside start to spin.

The symbols spin faster, a small amount of music coming from the machine as the lights start tracing along the crevices in waves of rainbow light. Slowly, one by one, each cylinder stops. Double bar comes first. Then another double bar. Aaaaand...... Cherries. The lights blink twice and two white chips fall into the winnings slot.

“Aww, rotten luck, babe.” A voice comes from just behind her. “You come here often?”

Charlie feels every muscle in her body stiffen at the sound, and even though she swore that some of the heat in her face was starting to ebb away, the sound of that voice caused all of it instantly flare back up, so much so that she swore she almost was getting dizzy. “Uh...No, this...this is my first time being in a casino, actually...” Her shoulders already start to hunch, and she moves to push down on the lever again, not turning around. If she turned around, she would be doomed.

“First time? Oh, I see. You just need a little luck is all. Let me help.” That sultry voice slinks closer without the sound of a foot even moving, and Charlie feels a hand cover hers on top of the lever, shoulders and clothed (thank goodness) breasts pressing against her back. The tip of a pointed, navy blue chin coming into view on her right, tiny freckles dotting her cheekbones. The hand holding hers is a slightly darker shade of blue. Her hand pulls the lever down and releases it before Charlie can properly react.

Charlie barely manages to stifle the sound, that welled up in her throat the moment she felt the woman press herself up against her back, having no true idea if it was going to be a squeak, a whimper, or anything between the two, eyes pinned to the slot machine in front of her, trying to ignore the sight of plush lips with golden lipgloss right in her peripherals, or the fierce tingling in her skin from where that palm had rested against the back of her own hand. Her cheeks were on fire, there’s no way her face wasn’t visibly starting to smoke, no way that the woman couldn’t _see it_ , and somehow that just made the looming presence of this woman so much more unbearable, her shoulders starting to quiver, the blood roaring in her ears. “Uh...Th-Thank you..”

Dazzle stomps his feet, but the woman ignores him.

“You’re welcome, babe.” She presses a little closer, one hand moving to Charlie’s waist while the other gently loops around her stomach, under her arms. The slot machine whirls and makes its flashing lights and music. “You know, usually people come with someone to breathe some life into the games.” Cherries. “If you don’t have someone, I’d be _more_ than willing to offer my _services.”_ Cherries again. Those golden lips tilt close to her chin in almost slow motion.

She feels the hand drift onto her waist, just above the waistband of her pants, feels the other wrap itself around her stomach, feels the sensation of the woman slowly leaning more of herself against her back, and Charlie can’t help but clench her fists, her entire body starting to quiver, starting to shake, and at this point she wasn’t even looking at what results she was getting from the slot machine. All she could concentrate on was the soft voice of the woman, those delicate touches, the furious tempo of her blood rushing through her ears, and the feeling of her cheeks melting from the sheer overwhelming inferno of flustered panic that was making her mind dissolve into nothing but internal screaming. 

Lips press to her chin, ever so slightly, the barest of feather-light kisses, and it feels so soft and warm and she can’t help the whimper that tears itself from her throat, a thin squeak that dies just before she opens her mouth, her tongue feeling like rubber. “I-I, um, I-I don’t think I-“

_“Kelly, I swear to fuckin’ God Himself-!”_

The woman jumps slightly, hands and body pulling back as she looks off to the side. “Oh, uh, Angie-”

“Nuh-uh. We’ve been over this before. No flustering the guests. Keep an eye on their body language. _And know who you’re flirting with for Christ’s sake.”_

Charlie feels the woman, Kelly, move further away from her. “Oh, I, uh, but-”

“No, it’s - Guh, just, go back to the tables. We can talk about it later, alright?”

“Oh, come on. It’s so _boring_ though!”

“Kelly. Listen to me.” The voice quiets itself. “I know you’re new around here, but that’s _Lucifer’s daughter.”_

“....Oh. _Oh._ Oh my god. Oh my - I am _so_ sorry.”

Charlie couldn’t help but blink when the sound of another voice suddenly rang out through the massive crowd of demons, couldn’t help but stare blankly at the blinking slot machine in front of her when she feels the woman, Kelly, pull away, and when she finally musters up the courage to turn around to face the woman that had snuck up on her, she finally snaps out of the stiff, motionless panic that she had been shocked into, a hand idly reaching up to press at the area where she felt the woman’s lips on her skin. “I-I, Uh...It’s...It’s ok.” 

Kelly sags slightly in relief, and the motion is somewhat exaggerated by the fact that her legs are octopus-like tendrils. Four golden eyes blink at her. “I, um... If it means anything, I really do find you cute?”

“Kelly.” The other person, a tall, white and pink man with heterochromatic eyes, pinches the area where a nose would be. “We’re both pretty gay, and I love you, but please... go.”

“R-right.” She smiles at Charlie. “Sorry again.” She slinks off, making a phone gesture as she leaves, pointing a few times between herself and the other demon.

He sighs, looking unimpressed. “She’s telling you to ask me for her number, isn’t she?”

Charlie can’t help but nod silently, eyes still wide, cheeks still bright red. After a moment, she breaks the silence. “Uh..Th-Thanks for that..I..” She finally takes a deep breath, the panic slowly starting to drain from her scattered mind, letting a hand drag over her face, a small nervous chuckling lacing her words, enough to make her shoulders shake. “I was not prepared for any of this.”

"Ah, don't sweat it. Happens plenty of times. I keep tellin' management to change the front or somethin'." He gestures loosely to the direction of the building's doors. "Oh, uh, you got cherries, by the way." He points back to the machine.

“Huh?” She lifts up her head from her hand, before turning around to face the slot machine, seeing that she, again, got only cherries. She lets out a sigh, and moves to collect the white coins from where they were deposited. “Right, thanks. I didn’t even notice.”

There are eight this time. "Heh. I can only imagine why. The name's Angel Dust, by the way."

“Charlie. Charlie Magne. Though, judging by what you just told _her,_ you already know that.” She feels a tug at her pant leg, looks down toward Razzle and Dazzle who both point at Angel Dust and give him a thumbs up, and can’t help but smile, before realizing that their words were probably lost on him, looking back up towards him. “Oh, uh, these are Razzle and Dazzle, and they want to thank you for helping me.”

"Ah, don't mention it. Half the job 'round here." He laughs, smiling, gaze bouncing between the three of them. His lower arms cross. "Though now that I think of it, I can only imagine someone else'll try wooin' you again. You want a place to lay low for a bit? At least calm down or something?"

Charlie blinks, but quickly looks around the room, just enough to see that there are a lot more of those scantily clad waiters and waitresses walking around, looking away just as fast, and she nods, her face still flushed to high heaven. “Y-Yeah, that..that sounds good. Thanks.”

"Okay. Follow me then. It's up on the fifth floor, so we'll need the elevator." He holds a hand out to her.

She glances down at his hand, hesitating for only a moment before moving to take it, clearing her throat. “L-Lead the way, then.”

He catches the look and offers a small smile. "Don't worry. I ain't gonna try anything. It's just a thing I gotta do to fool the guards and all." He waves a hand around as they walk, moving through the aisles of slot machines and to the back of the building. "I'm on shift, so if they think I'm just slackin' off, they'll hassle me. Besides, I was not kidding about being gay. I am _very_ very gay." He laughs a little, trying to make her feel more comfortable, though he isn't entirely sure if it's working.

Charlie can’t help but giggle back a slight bit, even as she lifts a hand again to her chin, shoulders hunched a bit, eyes darting all around, not entirely sure where to settle. “That’s, uh, reassuring. It’s good to know. I...I _think_ I’m straight? Maybe? The only person I ever dated or anything was a guy, but..” She can’t help but feel a new wave of heat roll over her cheeks, remembering the feeling of plush lips barely brushing against her chin, clearing her throat. “That...whole thing back there certainly felt...interesting.”

"Oh?" Angel raises a brow and gives her a quick look, noting the blush that stubbornly clings to her face. "You ever consider dating a girl before? Or is this, like, the first time where anything really.... y'know?"

“I, uh...” She almost seems to look confused for a moment, perplexed, her brow furrowing. “I mean..I know that stuff like that is possible, but I never really...found it to be my thing? Granted, I don’t exactly have many women in my life to begin with. The only ones I can think of are my mother, and _Helsa,_ which… _No.”_ Her nose wrinkles in a grimace of disgust.

"Tentacle hair bitch who was hittin' up the tables?" His brows raise further. "Yeah, we hate her 'round here too. But, I mean - well, give me a moment." He looks over to the guard stationed in front of the elevators. "Floor five, please."

The demon looks the both of them over, then blinks at Charlie, shrugs, and hits the button to open the elevator.

Angel smirks at him, taking both of Charlie's hands and pulling her into the elevator with him. "Thanks schnookems~"

The guard grumbles as the door closes.

Charlie can’t help but blink at the feeling of Angel suddenly taking both of her hands now, and though she was reassured that nothing would happen, she still couldn’t help but feel the blush burning away in her face anyway, joining the already massive maelstrom of heat that was probably making her face look more and more like a cherry every second. The moment the doors close, Razzle and Dazzle quick to move into the elevator and to Charlie’s side, she awkwardly tugs a hand out of his own, moving to clear her throat, idly tugging at her shirt collar. “Uhh...W-What exactly _is_ floor five?”

“It’s where all the sex happens.” Angel shrugs, letting go of her other hand and leaning against one of the walls casually. “Lots of prostitutes here, in case you haven’t guessed. We ain’t doin’ any of that, but like I said before, I need cover to keep my job.”

“Oh. I..I see.” She awkwardly moves to fold her arms, trying to take a deep breath, yet again, her hands then moving to rub her cheeks. “On a scale of tomato to Hell’s giant moon, how red is my face right now?”

“Ah....” He shifts a little. “You see the lights on the sign for this place? Like that, but red. So somewhere in the middle.”

“Right, ok. Sorry. I-...I was kind of locked up in my home for about a hundred years and there was _nothing_ like this the last time I saw the City, so I’m just really not prepared.” She lets one hand move to cradle the elbow of her other while her cheek rests in her palm. “Had no god damn idea that the Valentino man my Dad always talks about was this...raunchy.”

“One hundred....” Angel stares for a moment, listening to the rest of what she says. He snorts a little. “Heh. Raunchy. Valentino... I wouldn’t exactly call _him_ that, but, yeah, his business is. But damn. A hundred years in a castle? No wonder you don’t know if you’re bi or not.” He gives her a small grin, almost a touch worried. “Now, this is Hell, and I honestly have no fuckin’ clue where Lucifer’s head is at, but he and your mom wouldn’t be, like... _weird_ about you bein’ gay, right?”

She blinks, before a frown moves over her face, one that almost seems to be affronted, and she shakes her head firmly, holding up her hands in an almost placating fashion. “Oh, no no no! God no! There’s no way. I think _both_ my parents would sooner gut themselves with a holy sword than ever actually _hate me_ for, well, _anything.”_ She bites her lip after a moment and her arms fold again. “Besides, the only reason he kept me back home was because he just got scared. There were a lot of assassination attempts back in the 18th century down here. He didn’t want anything to happen to me.”

"Oh, I see." He shifts again. "Sorry, I just... I'm used to that not being the case. Good to hear the King and Queen have good heads on their shoulders, though." He shrugs, then glances at the doors as the elevators stops on their floor. "Okay. Let's get moving."

“Oh, uh, right.” She moves to take Razzle and Dazzle’s hands before making her way out of the elevator. She feels the back of her neck burning when the muffled sounds of moaning and creaking beds ring out through the air, and despite the efforts of the thick golden-laden walls and locked heavy oak doors, it all sounds like it’s practically an inch from her ears.

Angel laughs quietly. "Someone's having fun." He looks back at them. "My room's down the hall, don't worry. We can put some music on when we're in there."

“Thank you.” Her voice is really small, and her cheeks are growing so red that the marks that make her so recognizable to the denizens of Hell are starting to blend in with the rest of her face. Razzle was also very red in the face while Dazzle was already starting to laugh again.

Angel can't help but chuckle - who would have thought the daughter of the King of Hell could be so prude - but nonetheless picks up the pace and finds his door, pulling a key from his pocket and unlocking it. The room is fairly simple, with a radio, a TV, a bed, and two bedside tables. The blankets look amazingly soft, though, and all the colors are white and reddish pink. He lets them in before setting a card on the outer handle and closing it behind him. The noises from the other rooms fade somewhat. Charlie can’t help but look around the room a touch, having to admit that it was much more plain than she was expecting from something as glitzy as the front lobby. She watches as Razzle and Dazzle move to jump up onto the bed, while she moves to sit on the edge, her arms crossed looking down towards the floor for a moment. Razzle moves to place his hands on her ears, and that was enough to get her to grin, and she lets out a chuckle. “Thanks, bud.”

Angel walks over to the radio and flips it on, turning it to one of the many rock stations. "Anyone have any preferences for music?"

Charlie glances over towards both Razzle and Dazzle, who glance at each other and then both make a motion not unlike tooting a trombone, and she giggles. “They like jazz. Got any of those?”

"Jazz? Uh... Let me see." He flicks through a few channels, skipping ones he knows aren't jazz. He shivers slightly at the idea of hearing _his_ voice on the radio, but from what he saw, it'd take ages to hear his station playing again.

For a moment, there was little more than the sound of rapidly switching songs that rang through the speakers only to get cut off mere seconds later. Then, softly, with a particularly thick crackle of static, came a song that was enough to make Angel give pause, the lyrics ringing in his ears with the intensity of a bell.

_“...Bye bye, New Jersey, I’ve become airborne! Now you can’t catch me! Baby, you can’t catch me!...”_

Charlie can’t help but straighten at that. “Ooh, that sounds like a good one!”

"Ah, yeah, isn't that, uh, _You Can't Catch Me_ by, uh, shit, what's his name...?" Angel waves a hand in small circles, trying to recall the name through a pit of dread swelling in his stomach. "Berry or something?"

_"Flyin' with my baby last Saturday night. Twasn’t a gray cloud floatin' in sight. Big full moon shinin' up above. Cuddle up honey, be my love!"_

“Yeah, I think so. I haven’t heard many of his songs before but I know his name.” She rests her chin on her hand as she listens to the song dip and swell, the noises from the other room having been all but silenced. Razzle and Dazzle are both quick to grab each other’s hands and start performing a little dance routine, and she can’t help but giggle. “Careful, you two! I don’t want you to fall!”

Angel looks over and smiles again, crossing his arms as he watches them, trying to forget the aching feeling he has. "Nah, let ‘em play. This place is pretty well cushioned. Made for comfort. I doubt they'd get hurt." He walks over to the television and opens the black cabinet beneath it, revealing a nicely kept mini fridge. "Anyone want anything? I got soda, beer, seltzer."

"... _Two, three hours passed us by, five to two dropped to 5:05. Fuel consumption way too fast. Let's get on home before we run out of gas!..."_

“I’ll take a soda, thanks.” She glances over at Razzle and Dazzle, the former nodding enthusiastically in agreement while Dazzle holds up three fingers. “Make that two sodas, and a seltzer.”

"Okay." He scoops out three sodas and a seltzer and walks back over to them, sitting down beside them with a comfortable amount of space between them and holding the cans out with a different hand each. "So, you’re a jazz fan?"

“Kinda, yeah. My dad got super into it back when the 20’s came around. He tries to keep up with the newest music that plays up on Earth.” She takes two of the drinks and hands them over to Razzle and Dazzle before taking her own drink and cracking it open. “I will admit that I got pretty into it too. It’s fun to dance to.”

"Ah, yeah, I suppose so. I've never been much of a dancer, unless it's on a pole, heh." He leans back.

The radio crackles as the song fades out, only to be replaced with a voice. "Hello again, hello again, dear listeners!" Mid-atlantic, sickeningly charming, and just a touch too upbeat. "I hope that last one brought a smile to your face, and I apologize for my recent absence-"

Angel reflexively tosses his can, unopened, at the radio, barely feeling his limbs at how much adrenaline is pumping through him. The thing slides back, whirring with more static, and the can rolls off the stand and onto the floor with a dent in its rim.

"-couldn’t help myself! Haha! But don't you worry, listeners. The more loyal of you know this happens from time to time. _Morning Smiles_ is going _nowhere."_

"Holy fucking shit." Angel's eyes are wide, staring at the radio as a laugh track plays.

Charlie can’t help but flinch at the sudden motion, at the sudden violence in which Angel had tossed the can, her legs instantly pulling up onto the bed, her arms pulling to her chest, and even Razzle and Dazzle are motionless, frozen, eyes wide at the display, clinging to her sides. Her eyes flick to Angel’s face, the way his pupils shrunk, the way his limbs idly shook, and she doesn’t need to gaze into him to feel any of the terror that was making his heart pound. 

“...Is something wrong?”

" _That_ is not possible. What the fuck?" He bolts upright and darts forward the radio, pressing the button to turn it off. He stares as the static and Alastor's voice continue to fill the air. "Off. Why isn't it turning off?" He jams the button a few more times.

"-lentino again. Seems I've really gotten under the old bug's skin! Can't say I blame him. My work is spectacular after all! Ahaha!"

He picks up the radio, finding its cord and following it behind the bureau it stands on top of. He starts wrestling it to get to the outlet.

"Sadly, this is just a recording for the time being, as I'm expected to be at a meeting around the time this airs. But either way I'd like to say a few words to my detractors." A small pause. "Are you satisfied? I imagine you aren't, seeing as you've failed. And worse than usual. You really are spoiling me! But more importantly... Do you feel _safe-"_

The radio sparks and goes dead as Angel yanks the cord out of the wall, huffing, entire body shaking. He takes a moment to breathe, trying to calm himself.

There was silence for a long moment, as if the very air in the room was trying to hold its breath, was trying it’s damndest to not let the floodgates open, to hold back the monsoon of fear that was no doubt trying to break down the door. Charlie was frozen, like a deer in the headlights, her eyes flicking down towards the silent and still radio, the one that was dead and dormant within Angel’s hands, and she can’t help but feel something within the vacancy of her chest clench, as if the phantom sensation of a heart was creeping it’s way in. Her eyes flick back up towards Angel Dust, her voice incredibly soft. 

“...I think you can put it down now.”

He lets out a deep breath, looking over at her, seeing an almost scared look reflecting back at him but tinged with pity, and he presses his lips together as he sets the radio down. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. "Sorry, sorry, just... recognized the voice and.... Geez, just..." He rubs his cheeks, taking care not to smudge the makeup on his eyes or lips. "There are bad people in Hell, Charlie, but _him?"_ He points at the radio. "Stay away from him. Please."

“...Who was that? I don’t recall ever hearing his voice on the radio before.” She slowly begins to relax, her legs slowly moving back down onto the floor. Razzle and Dazzle share glances before slowly moving away from where they had clung to her sides.

“He’s...” Angel sighs again and moves back to the bed, picking up his can on the way. “He calls himself Alastor, but he’s known as Mr. Smiles on the radio. I got involved with a few things with Valentino and accidentally ended up meeting the guy, and....” He frowns, tapping his can. “He’s really fuckin’ weird in person, but not too bad, if I’m honest? But I _know_ who this guy was on Earth. I know his name, what he _did...”_ He looks up at her, unsure for a moment before his expression hardens. He shifts to face her fully. “I don’t want to freak you out, okay? But if _you’re_ gonna be walkin’ around, it’s - you gotta know this, alright? But you can’t tell everyone about it. If Val finds out I was the one who let this all out, I’m gonna have a lot more than Alastor to worry about. Ya know?”

She stares after a moment, silent, her fingers now curled tight over her can of soda, almost like a vice. Her eyes glance back over to the radio, the cord that now hung limply in the air, as if it were dead, and she feels a slight chill slowly crawl down her spine. If hearing the man’s _voice_ was enough to make Angel Dust react so violently, then it must’ve been serious. “Of course.” 

Razzle and Dazzle make a pinching motion near the corner of the lips, making a zipping motion, before they twist their wrists and make a dramatic show of tossing the proverbial key over their shoulders.

“Okay. So.” He feels an itch in even repeating the man’s crimes. “The guy, in life up on Earth, was also a radio host, but, long and short of it, ended up also being a cannibal. Hid it really well, no one knew ‘til he died, that kinda thing. Serial killer. Nothing new for Hell, right? Except...” Angel winces, recalling opening the freezer. “Except that down here, he’s still - he’s still a cannibal. And I don’t mean he eats _humans._ I mean he’s - moved on from that. He’s eating _demons._ Like he’s _literally_ a demon cannibal.”

Charlie can’t help but feel the blood drain away from her face, taking the last remnants of the once seemingly permanent blush with it, and were it not for her hands already clutching the can, she was sure that they would’ve clenched into fists. That chill slowly turns into a sleeping cold, her blood drawing sluggish in her veins, and her stomach twists, dread and shock pooling into it to the point where it began to make her limbs tremble. “W..What? H-How?”

“I - I don’t know! I went to his house - he wasn’t there, thank God - and I was looking around for stuff, and I opened the freezer and he had - _gah_ \- tubs of cut up meat, and just - there was an _arm_ in the back. An actual arm from a demon.” He feels his stomach clench, the images he had managed to keep at bay during his work flooding his mind.

“A _what?!”_ Her voice can’t help but raise up in sheer alarm, and she actually moves to stand from the bed, placing the can in one of Dazzle’s hands, her arms moving to bury themselves in her hair, backing up out of sheer shock. “An arm?! You found an _arm?!”_

“Yeah! But, uh-” He glances at the door, then quickly moves around her to turn on the TV. Hopefully Vox wasn’t able to spy on them through televisions. He clicks it on and flips through to some channel advertising clothing. “Try and keep your voice down. Don’t want anyone getting ideas.”

“How can-?!” Her hands clench and she lets them drop from her hair to shake in the air, whispering furiously. “How can I keep my voice down when you just told me there’s some psycho out there eating demons?! Did Valentino know about this?! Does anyone?! How come no one bothered to tell my dad about this?!”

“We just found out today!” He whispers back with the same tone, his four arms waving at her. “ _I_ found the arm today. And yes, Valentino knows, but he doesn’t want to cause a fuckin’ public crisis because he thinks the guy _wants_ the attention. But Valentino’s also been harassin’ this guy for years or somethin’, which means, for all we know, Alastor, a.k.a. _Mr. Smiles,_ is gonna start targeting his men, and he’s _already met me, holy shit.”_

It‘s finally starting to hit him, the things Valentino had said during their previous talk. That Alastor might target him for telling Valentino and Vox where he and the girl were hiding. And here he is, just acting like nothing is different and like he isn’t a target at all. Tears prick at his eyes as his breath whistles thinly through his teeth.

Why did he try to help that girl? He wouldn’t be in this mess if he had just minded his own damned business.

Charlie’s panicked expression instantly drops, and her back straightens, her face pulling into a look of concern, arms raised up in the air, hesitantly. “...H-Hey, it..” She trails off, biting her lip, not necessarily knowing what exactly she could say to stave off what she could feel was coming. She finally resorts to moving to place a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, hey, hey. Calm down, ok? Try to breathe, alright?”

He does as she says, taking a shaky breath, and forces himself back into the present, grounding himself with her hand. “I - I....” He blinks, not looking at her. “I don’t want to die like that.”

Her expression drops, an icy spear of pain skewering right through her chest in that instant, and she can’t help but feel something swell up in the back of her mind, something bitter and frustrated and writhing in seething anger from constantly being shoved down, confined, repressed, howling in satisfaction, in the fact that it was proven _right._ Her other hand, hanging by her side, clenches into a fist, in an effort to chase it away. Now was not the time. She takes a deep breath before speaking, trying to make her voice sound steady. “You won’t.”

Angel’s eyes widen and he manages another breath through a sniffle. He doesn’t know how she can say that, let alone promise it. He’s just a random on the street anyways, another person in Hell. Sure, his career was picking up, and Valentino may be watching him more in the moment, but there wasn’t anyone who’d really miss him as far as he knew.

He guesses it doesn’t really matter much.

“Right. Right.” He blinks a few more times, praying momentarily that his mascara isn’t ruined, and takes another breath. Behind Charlie, he eyes one of the bedside tables. “You, uh, mentioned something about talkin’ to Lucifer about this?”

She slowly slides her hand off his shoulder, and nods, arms folding, glancing off to the side. “Well...If don’t want me to, I can understand...After all, if I tell him the whole story, he might try to question Valentino about it, and I wouldn’t want that to be traced back to you.”

“No, I... I honestly think Val’s got it wrong on this.” He exhales, moving around her. “If anyone can make the right decision for Hell, it’d be Lucifer, right? And, I dunno if it’ll help, but...” He pulls the drawer open and shuffles about a few papers and condoms and lube for an oval of rose glass wrapped in thin metal, a few beads attached to a corner. He turns to her and holds it out. “I found this at the guy’s place. Looks like a monocle or somethin’. I was gonna give it Val if he wanted to track the guy, but he didn’t want to. I don’t know if Lucifer would need it, but.... I dunno.”

She blinks after a moment, and slowly moves to take it, holding it up to her eye to scrutinize it. “...Yeah, it’s definitely a monocle. The string it’s usually attached to is snapped off.” She frowns, idly, in thought. “..Something feels...strange about it...”

“It kinda gives me the heebie-jeebies, to be honest.” He rubs his arm and takes a seat on the bed again. “Maybe it’s cursed? Who knows in Hell.”

“I wouldn’t say that, but...” She bites her lip a bit. “I think there might actually be a bit of magic inside this thing. Barely. I can’t really sense it that well, but I’m getting _something.”_

“Figures. Hopefully not tracking magic.” He shivers just thinking about it. “Val said he had some weird magic, though. Something about healing and strength. I’ve kinda been trying not to think about it.”

“Right...” She glances towards him, sliding the monocle into her pocket. “You said you...talked to him?”

“Ah. Yeah.” Angel pushes his hair back again. “There was a girl tryin’ to get back home who was bein’ harassed by some gangsters, so I helped her back home. Turned out she was patchin’ up Alastor after Val’s men did him in. He looked a little out of it, so he had to’ve actually been sick or something.”

“A girl? Taking care of someone like him?” She frowns, moving to sit down next to him. “Did she not know or...?”

“Not at all. I mean, the only reason I put the pieces together is because I put the pieces together about his past. 1933, name starting with A, radios, smiling all the time, from New Orleans. I didn’t even know Valentino was lookin’ into the guy at the time. I had to tell _Val_ who he was lookin’ at. But the girl’s only been down here for two years, maybe. Probably thinks he’s some innocent hero or somethin’.”

“Jeez, that...That isn’t good...” She shifts a little, frowning, glancing back up toward the radio. “...Do you know what happened after you left the girl’s house? Are they still there?”

“Long gone.” A bitter look fills his face. “A bunch of Vox’s men shot up the place looking for the guy. Killed the girl. The place is entirely vacant now. Val sent me and some other guy to look into it, claiming somehow _I_ was part of the reason for fucking it all up.” He glowers. “There wasn’t anything at her place, so we went to check out Alastor’s place, and we found the demon meat, and that monocle. Nothing else. Completely empty. This guy keeps evading Val, too. Just ghosts as soon as they get close, from what I understand. He doesn’t like bein’ found, but he loves pissin’ people off. So it’s a dead end there. Aside from the monocle.”

There was a moment of silence, heavy, filled with tension. Charlie’s eyes fill with shock, with mild horror, and she feels her chest clench yet again, her hands balling into fists against her knees for a moment. “...Is the girl...still dead?“

“No body at the house. No trace of her bein’ dragged, but she’s only, like, this tall.” He measures out maybe two or three feet form the ground. “Not much taller than you two, actually.” He glances at Razzle and Dazzle.

Both Razzle and Dazzle exchange worried glances, holding hands. Charlie’s frown intensifies, and her expression shifts from horror to dread. “So...This guy, Alastor...You think he...took her?” She tries to not think about the implications. If the girl had been dead or alive. She didn’t know which one was worse.

“Could have. I’m more hoping he ignored her in the hopes of getting distance between him and the gangs.” He shrugs. “I... I don’t know.”

“...Shit..” She rubs a hand over her face, sighing after a moment. “What was her name?”

"Ah... She only gave me her real name. She didn't really have one." Angel looks aside.

“Ah, I see..” She goes quiet after that, biting her lip. “This is...” She recalls the voice on the radio, the chilling monologue that was cut short just at its most chilling peak, and she feels her blood run cold. “This is _really_ bad, wow.”

"Yeah. Heh." He taps his can a few more times, then cracks it open and takes a swig. "I guess I can tell you her name, if you promise not to go around telling everyone. Maybe you can find her."

“I was honestly gonna try that even without her name.” She flashes a weak, barely there grin. “But a name would be a good way to start, anyway.”

"Ah... It's Alice. She has this, um, short hair, that kinda goes like this-" He gestures with his hands. "And she's only got one eye. Knows a lot about medicine."

“Alice..” She nods after a moment. “Alice. Cyclops, really short, cute haircut, and is probably a doctor. Doesn’t sound _too_ impossible, not gonna lie. If she’s...still alive, I mean..”

"Even if she's not, the only way to really _kill_ someone down here is to have an angel blade. Alastor didn't look like he had much on him, though I guess it isn't impossible for him to find one."

“But would he?” She tilts her head at that. “Would he go and kill someone that just helped him up off the streets? You said you saw them together, in her house before it got shot to shit, right? Was there any kind of...I dunno, sign that this guy was...grateful? Or genuinely kind in any way? From what you could see?”

"He..." Angel frowns. "I don't know. He seemed okay? As okay as you can get with a demon at least. He thanked me for helping get the girl home, and he mentioned something about helping her find some authentic Frank Sinatra music, but he got this... look on his face when she hugged him. I dunno. She said he didn't like being touched. The whole thing rubbed me wrong. It all felt off."

Charlie can’t help but look down towards the floor, sighing, mulling over everything in her head. Either this girl was dead somewhere, permanently, at this man’s hands, or she wasn’t, and she was out there somewhere, possibly still with him, or possibly not with him at all. Either way, none of those options seemed easy or appealing. It all looked so damn grimm. “..I’ll try my best to do what I can.”

"Thanks, Charlie. I..." He exhales. "I don't know if I'm going to be involved anymore on Val's side of things. If I figure anything out, I'll let you know, though." He frowns. "Actually, maybe we should trade phone numbers."

“Oh, uh, right.” She pats down the inside of her coat for a moment. “Do you happen to have a pencil and a piece of paper anywhere?”

"Yeah, uh..." He leans over and opens the same drawer he had been messing with earlier. He pulls out a small notepad and pen and writes his number down almost reflexively before handing it to her. "Here."

“Thanks.” She folds up the paper and places it into her pocket before taking the same pen and writing down her own number onto a different piece of paper. “There.”

"Thanks, doll." He takes the paper and slides it into one of his pockets.

“No problem.” She sighs, moves to take her soda from Dazzle’s hand, and takes a hearty swig. “Boy, I was not expecting my night to turn out like _this.”_

"Hey, I didn't expect this morning to find a demon arm in a freezer." He manages to laugh, shaking his head.

“Hey, that’s a whole different ballpark. That’s _scary._ This is just...odd. I mean, me, the princess of Hell, sitting in a room, drinking soda, and chatting it up with a prostitute.” She pauses, then actually starts to blush a bit, though more out of embarrassment. “Eh-Not that it’s a bad thing or anything, I just...You know. Wasn’t expecting it.”

“Pff, haha!” He snickers, though he had been about to say something. “Heheh. No, yeah, I get it. I definitely didn’t expect to be talkin’ up the Princess of Hell.”

“Heh. Well, have I made a good first impression?” She flashes a beaming grin, teeth pointed and sharp.

He chuckles. "Yeah, sure. I'll have to check you off as not a client, though."

“Oh, uh, yeah, of course.” She chuckles a bit too, her cheek marks starting to glow a touch more red. “I don’t think I’ll ever come back to this place again. No offense but I’d rather not be surrounded by half-naked staff that might try and flirt with me.”

"Eh, everyone has their tastes." He shrugs. "But hey, if you ever feel like being flirted with, you know where to come. And just to bring the conversation full circle, don't worry about figurin' out if you’re bi or lesbian or whatever. Take your time."

“Ah..Yeah, definitely. Right.” Her cheeks start to glow even redder, and she takes another swig of her soda to try and let the topic come to a close. “I, uh, appreciate that.”

"Hey, I'm just saying. I have sex with women, when they pay, but I'm still gay. Shit's complicated. No need to rush or fret over what word you wanna use. Just, y'know, figure yourself out at your own pace, and tell everyone who says otherwise to fuck off." He drinks from his soda can calmly.

“I know, I know, trust me, I get it.” She holds up a hand placatingly, chuckling as she does. “I get what you’re saying. I just..I dunno, I never considered it before so I just...I dunno, I have no idea where to start?” She shrugs, almost helplessly. “The last relationship I had kind of ended in a train wreck. And it wasn’t with a girl either.”

"Oh." He blinks, then grins again. "Well, hey, the past's the past, right? Don't let it define ya and all that? Though, I mean, I don't really do relationships much either. And that's alright too."

She lets out a sigh and takes another swig of her soda. “Yeah, I hear what you mean. Honestly, I _am_ over it, I just dunno what to do to jump back into the game, or however that saying goes. It’s been at least...30 years now? 31? Yeah, 31 years since I last saw that asshole.”

"Yeesh, yeah, that is a while. Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out. You gotta meet someone before you have a relationship too, so...." He shrugs. “But, uh, anyways. Do you still need some time to cool off, or do you wanna head back down?”

“I...” She nods after a moment. “I think I’m ready.” She gives him a grin. “Thanks, for, uh, the help. I’ll be sure to let you know if I find anything about Alice.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He grins, but it feels forced. “Hopefully all of this gets sorted out sooner rather than later.”

•••

“Ugh! Finally!” 

Niffty couldn’t help but huff slightly out of embarrassment and relief as she finally managed to get the front door to creak open, having spent a good few seconds trying to figure out which way to turn the keys before finally getting the lock to unlatch, taking a moment to dust off her clothes before moving to pick up the pizza box up off the porch, where she had set it down, walking into the door and letting it shut behind her. She takes a moment to look around the empty living room, the books that Nora had given her still sat atop the coffee table, frowning for a moment in thought. That radio was still going too; she could hear it from the other room, playing yet another jazzy tune. Was it possible to just have songs on loop like that? She always thought that radio workers had to manually make each song play, not just have it go on a repeating track. “Alastor? You home yet? I got pizza!” 

There was no answer, and after a moment, she moves to walk into the kitchen, mumbling to herself as she goes. “Huh. He’s been gone for a while....Hope he’s ok.” She frowns harder a touch, just a touch, before letting out a sigh, and moving to place the pizza box up on the counter, standing on her tiptoes to do so. “Oh well. Guess I’ll just have to wait.” She peers at the box after a second of silence, and she feels her eye narrow in contemplation. Her fingers drum on the edge of the stovetop. “...I shouldn’t eat some now. It’ll just be cold by the time he comes back. I shouldn’t. Should I? No, I shouldn’t.” Her eye narrows more. “...But maybe just one slice?” She reaches a hand for the box then snags it back. “ _No,_ no, I can’t, no, that’s bad manners, no.” Her shoulders slump. “But the cheeeeeese...”

She hums for a long moment, contemplating the dilemma, and then looks at the books she’s about to be handling. It probably wouldn’t do to have grease come anywhere near it.... But the best time to have a pizza would be to have it warm.... She could reheat it in the oven when he gets back? Guh. The smell is going to be a hassle in the meantime.

 _“Hmmmmm...”_ She narrows her eye after a long moment, then lets out a long drawn out sigh as she moves away from the pizza box and moves back into the living room. “You win, precious hundreds of years old books. But only because I wouldn’t want Nora to be furious with me because I accidentally got pizza grease near her delicate research papers.” She climbs back onto the couch, scooting near the edge, before moving to grab the second book out of the pile. “Ok, here we go...Book 2...” She opens it up to the first page, greeted by the same aged brown paper that was in the first tome.

There’s a bit of rehashing what the previous book had said, mentioning the more basic definitions for the types of magic and aspects of the soul, and then a few dozen important diagrams from the previous book as well, for reference. The drawings are a bit more precise, with marginally less notation and increasingly more clarity to them. The pages after give some more information about the diagrams, continuing to rehash findings.

And then there’s a page with a title underlined three times: _“FOURTH TYPE OF MAGIC.”_

 _“I was considering the possibilities of Chaos magic and the concept of magic as a resource being perhaps more abundant than expected. There is an apparent ‘limit’ to how much magic an individual demon can wield through their soul, implying a specific capacity for each demon. Possibilities for increasing said capacity aside, if such a thing is truly a_ resource _as I am stating, a resource which replenishes over time, then it must be such that_ something else _is replenishing the magic, that there is a source which works to refill all(?) beings’ magical capacity. Given the ‘cool down’ rates of demons, how a person can use all their magic in one day, and then repeat said process the very next day if they are careful enough, the source must be vastly abundant, nigh infinite. Consider possibility that source is similar to the ocean. Consider possibility that source is more similar to fresh water? Further analysis required.”_

There’s a short break in the page with a variety of mathematical equations and small doodles of natural objects. The writing continues:

_“Yes, it is possible. There is a source of magic, though I do not believe I have found it, but rather the vestiges or remnants it has left behind. Feeling myself quite silly, I gathered from the nearby forests and even from the more distant desert a selection of rocks, grasses, and fruits, and put each through a series of ‘collection’ processes. I first attempted a physical test of squeezing the magic out of them (ridiculous, I know) and found the results failed. Heat and cold likewise did nothing. In talking with my subject more about her philosophy, we came to a conclusion that perhaps magic would draw out the magic. Producing a like would, in this case, produce a like. Or, as in most other science, it would repel it. In either case, the magic would become apparent._

_“It worked._

_“The exact process was incredibly rigorous, and even as I am writing it down I believe I may have forgotten a few minor steps in the resulting stress. I am unharmed, but I feel taxed. I fear writing the steps in case a lesser experienced individual were to find them. They will be kept separate from this book. The more important finding here is that it is possible to remove an essence of magic from material objects and distill it into a corporeal form.”_

It takes Niffty a couple seconds of re-reading the passages for it all to finally click, and she can’t help but stare for a moment or two, shock slowly making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “...Wow. I-I mean, I knew she was smart but..” She actually sits back a moment to process it all. “She...gave magic a physical form. A real, solid, tangible form. That...That’s just incredible.”

The next page has a diagram of a beaker full of a liquid with the words _viscous, at times gelatinous_ written to the left of it and _0.481 Liters_ to the right. There are a few symbols drawn in the margin without any context.

_“The resulting magic, which I will refer to as ‘essence’, materialized as a liquid and appeared to drip from the object into the dish below it. I managed to produce approximately half a liter of essence before ending the process, and it maintained a liquid form for several days. In moving it from dish to dish, I noted a few peculiarity. When dropped from a height of more than 25 centimeters, the essence sparks and releases an amount of energy. In further testing, shaking a small vial of essence produced an almost storm-like effects within the glass before the entire vial exploded, leaving behind a six meter wide crater. Approximately 25 milliliters produced the explosion. The substance should be treated with utmost care as it is incredibly volatile. However, put into a solid form via another process which shall remain separate from this work, the essence remains relatively stable. Signs of its degradation include re-liquefying. I recommend storing solid essence in a cool, dry space far from other liquids so as to keep maintenance of the essence accurate.”_

“Huh, ok...So, she..drained the magic out of some object and it manifested as liquid..” She traces a finger along one of the lines. “A six meter wide crater...I dunno how big that is but I’m guessing that since it apparently _exploded,_ it’s pretty big.” She winces at the thought. “Yeesh. How does she not catch on fire with all those feathers?”

_“While its physical form is more stable, it appears there are fewer uses for it. It produces no sense of magical charge and does not enhance magical abilities by being in close proximity to it. The liquid form, when applied to plants, changes its appearance and enhances its growth. A seed from a Cacta Lily grew into a fully matured, eight foot tall cactus plant within thirty minutes of application of 25 milliliters of essence. A theoretical application exists to demons, though willing subjects come sparsely. Two have agreed, both being drug addicts. The first I instructed to swallow the essence, which provided no results except an odd sickly feeling about two hours later. Subject vomited the essence shortly after and declined further testing. The second I instructed to inject the essence with a needle, and shortly afterward, their veins showed and magic roared from their fingertips without being called. Subject fled the scene in a panic.”_

“Huh...Funny. So it seems to be a major boost to plants, but it can’t seem to do much to demons. Well, it can, but, nothing that useful.” She can’t help but hum, tilting her head, her expression almost seeming to pout. “Hmph. Well, that’s boring. I mean, it’s still cool, but I was expecting more from an injection of pure liquid magic.”

A diagram of a cube of the material is on the next page, sparkling as if with stars in it, as well as a depiction of the Cacta Lily, which almost looks like a regular cactus if not for the massive multicolored flowers atop it. A hand engulfed and spewing flames is under that.

 _“A colleague proposed the possibility of using the sparks produced by the liquid essence as a means of energy. Having been a previous engineer of Pentagram City’s electricity infrastructure, they made note of the use of latent magic already in the system of electronics throughout the City. The magic spoken of here is not a Chaotic magic as it may seem, but rather remnants of the Holy and Soul magic that have been expended by the inhabitants of Hell. It appears that magic, once used, produces a byproduct similar to heat in other scientific equations which electricians here consider_ latency. _In my colleague’s best estimate, it is more accurately considered as an invisible gas or vapor, though it does not appear to behave as such. If a magic byproduct of that sort can carry or even produce energy, then it does stand to reason that a much more potent form of magic can carry and produce even more energy.”_

There’s a small break in the page, a few drops of a miscellaneous substance marring the surface. Then two words.

_“It worked.”_

Niffty can’t help but blink at the way the page is structured, and she slowly squints at the mysterious drops, trying to discern on wether or not it was blood or remnants of cactus juice. After a moment of silence, she slowly sits back, humming to herself. “Wait, so...Electricity down here has magic in it? And this part was a test to see if this liquid magic can essentially give that electricity a power boost?” She tilts her head, before glancing up at the lamp that was across the room, currently turned on, lightbulb burning bright. “..It doesn’t… _seem_ that magical..”

_“I cannot divulge the specifics of these tests, primarily for the potential uses of such instruments in the coming future, but I can express, unequivocally, that the output of energy when properly channeled from 10 liters of liquid essence approximates a similar level of Hell itself. The year is 1935.”_

Niffty’s eye goes wide and her jaw drops, not moving for a moment before she simply presses her hands to her face and takes a deep breath. “...So...10 liters of this essence stuff...Just 10...Produces enough energy to power the entire god damn city?” There was silence, of course, since there was no around to hear her, and she buries her fingers in her hair. “Holy _shit.”_

_“There is a problem, however, though not one with our readings. The 10 liters took time to produce, but that was expected. The collection of this energy was done easily enough with my colleague’s aid. No, the problem lies in another external force. It appears some residents of Hell have acquired a sensitivity to magic, or the ‘balance’ which it finds itself in Hell. We had been using the energy to jumpstart a potential power plant, and succeeded in doing so, but shortly thereafter began receiving reports of demons falling ill or disoriented. The output of energy, perhaps more in all the ‘latency’ it provided, has hampered progress with our plans. The plant was ordered to shut down, and the majority of the effects fell away from the patients within 24 hours.”_

Niffty’s expression falls into that of complete fascination, and she actually takes a moment to re-read the passage, not for the sake of trying to understand the words, but simply trying to process the implications. “Huh...Ok, so, it’s not a perfect process, and it can actually make demons sick because of the increase of energy that’s being released. Almost sounds like some backwards version of toxic fumes, like the gasoline in a car or smoke from a factory.”

A variety of diagrams fill the next few pages with various technology - cars, lights, microwaves, conveyor belts, and so on - showing how each works on “Pentagram Energy” and “Essence Energy.” Generally, the lights are brighter, the motion faster, the energy use more efficient, the heat production increased. Various amounts of essence are used for each, the most efficient listed above the amount that would equate to typical performance of Pentagram Energy.

_“In smaller, more controlled quantities, essence can be used to replace reliance on Pentagram City’s electrical grid without any effects on demons who use or are in close proximity to the equipment in question. The potential for this alternate fuel source is not one to be scoffed at. However, as stated previous, the liquid essence is highly unstable, so practical applications at this time remain limited. Attempts at extracting power from solid essence remain inadequate. A method to stabilize the liquid essence is needed, and theoretically in sight. As the essence itself theoretically comes from the source of Chaos magic, and other forms of magic, such as the Holy magic of Angels, is similar in power but much more refined, it may be that extracting such magic and adding it to the liquid essence could stabilize it.”_

“Damn...This stuff is really complicated. I mean, kind of. It’s just a lot to process, I guess. I mean, what can you even say? A giant demon bird lady somehow managed to extract the dormant magic that was used to make the entire universe out of a leaf, put it in a beaker, and found out the fumes from the magic turning into goo was powerful enough to run an entire city? That’s what I’m getting from this so far, and I am very confused but also very interested.” She can’t help but rest a chin in her hand. “No wonder Nora works for Pentious. He probably would’ve been itching to get his hands on this type of process.”

_“Pardon me as I diverge from the topic. A conversation with my colleague has presented me with a quandary once again regarding the soul. The year is now 1942. My colleague approached me earlier in confidence to discuss a figure he knows to be highly prominent within the history of Hell, but who has apparently been erased in the minds of most if not all citizens of Hell. To put it frankly, he claims knowledge of a celebrity only he can clearly recall. The title he gives this celebrity demon is, somewhat unimaginatively, The Radio Demon.”_

Niffty’s brow shoots upward slightly upon that particular passage, and she blinks, before starting to frown ever so slightly. “...The...The Radio Demon? That’s not something I ever heard of before...”

 _“It may be, that upon reading this (we have not tested this hypothesis) that you, the reader, may receive the oddest feeling that you may know of or have heard of this Radio Demon. I am hereby writing to let you know that_ you are not alone in this. _While my colleague was explaining this phenomenon to me, I came very near to calling him delusional, perhaps as a result of our previous close proximity to the attempted essence power plant, but upon hearing the name was incapable of making such a claim. Something about it rung with a familiarity so clear yet so emotionally and illogically driven that I could not make a claim in good faith as to whether or not this individual, The Radio Demon, did in fact exist. My colleague foresaw this reaction, somehow, and produced my first manual, which I had lent him, and directed me to some passing comments made in the margins of some of the less prominent sketches and diagrams I had made. Most of these were theoretical and, admittedly, theologically and philosophically driven assumptions on the connection between the body, mind, and spirit, though the majority of the ones he singled out were dedicated to memory and its specific connection to the soul. He pointed to one in specific which reads ‘There may be a memory and then something beyond it, a collective, perhaps, which frames the reality in which we live.’ Somehow, in reading the marginal comments of my work, he had convinced himself that something, or someone, had tampered with this hypothetical collective consciousness, collective memory, and that through some stroke of luck, his own memory had been left largely untouched.”_

Niffty can’t help but frown even more as she continues to read, her brow furrowing harder as she does so. She..doesn’t feel anything like that. There was nothing familiar at all about that name, and she _certainly_ didn’t remember ever hearing it anywhere. She thinks she would have remembered hearing a name like that, even if it was a tad on the lazier side of things.

_“Without inserting any of my own doubts on the subject, my colleague’s report of history is as follows: In 1933, a demon entered Hell from Earth with unspeakable amounts of magical power, and proceeded to decimate the population of Pentagram City while broadcasting the slaughter live on his radio channel. Buildings had been toppled. Overlords from before my time were killed. This demon then stopped, rather abruptly, and faded into the corners of public conscience, occasionally making a scene but generally sticking to the shadows, until 1938, when a large portion of Pentagram City was again demolished. It was at this point that The Radio Demon seemingly vanished from Hell. My colleague saw the absence as merely part of the demon’s strange and unpredictable tendencies, though he could never quite understand the silence from the media and populace. However, given our work, he was never given proper time to research the matter._

_“The vast majority of this sounds fantastical. A Made Demon entering Hell with the power to kill centuries old Overlords overnight? I told him it was impossible. He asked me for the death dates of Lord Creleon, Bitsby, Harrow the Wise, Patron, Mistress July, Quinlan, Hammerlock, and Zerlina. He asked each individually, of course. And my response to every single one was 1933. He asked me how they died, and all I could say was ‘I don’t know.’”_

Niffty can’t help but stare down at the page, her blood almost seeming to run cold in her veins for a moment, a shiver crawling up her spine. She didn’t know much about Overlords still, not really, but from what she had seen from Pentious, they were strange, mysterious, and absolutely terrifying in every sense of the word, commanding nothing more than absolute obedience and respect from everyone around them, no matter what. And to think that some strange demon, a _mortal_ demon that no one even seemed to know anymore, just...went and killed so many of them. Just like that, as if it were a cakewalk. It was enough to make her feel the tiniest bit _glad_ that this mysterious boogeyman amongst Hell was gone.

 _"Furthermore, I could recall the damages done to the City in 1933, but not the date, the cause, or the news coverage that immediately surrounded it. The more questions I asked about the day, the more I realized I_ could _remember bits and pieces, but couldn't remember the person at hand. The Radio Demon sounds familiar because I (we/you) can recall what he did but only sounds familiar because the memory of the person is blocked (if our hypothesis holds). I was still not entirely convinced of my colleague's statements on the matter, but now more than willing to entertain the idea and the inklings of the phenomenon at hand. It was an intriguing puzzle to solve, but I couldn't find the same level of urgency as he did. I told him as such. His response was a series of questions regarding the current affairs of the Royal High Court (more commonly known as Lucifer's Court). My response was approximately as is below:_

_"There are 73 members of the Royal High Court, if counting the King, Queen, and Princess, but 70 when discounting them (as is common). Among the ranks are the Kings (Baal, Paimon, Beleth, Purson, Asmodeus, Vinea, Balam, Zagan, and Belihor), Dukes, Princes.... I listed all 70 of the Court. He approved the list. He then upended his coin purse on the table in between us and asked me to count the number of sigils marked for each Court member. I counted 25 in total, though my colleague was by no means a poor man. The entire desk was covered, and he even offered his aid in sorting to lessen the time we spent. I wondered if it were all an elaborate conspiracy, given the claim he made next, but later on, in my own home, I conducted the same experiment with my own coin, and only found 25 Court sigils among them. I too am not a poor demon._

_"It was shocking, then, to consider his claim that The Radio Demon had killed 45 of Lucifer's Court within the 5 years he had been in Hell. It was further shocking to consider that there was, is, and will never be a_ confirmed death _of The Radio Demon as well. And, thirdly, it was shocking to consider a potential power that could best said Radio Demon and purge his existence (almost) from the minds of Hell (almost).”_

Niffty’s hand moves to cradle her chin, a finger tapping her bottom lip as her eye narrows in befuddlement, in confusion, in perplexed curiosity, and she couldn’t help but curl her knees up against her chest, folding her arms around them as she tries her damndest to think. Those titles that had been listed, the names given, were definitely intriguing, and the sheer fact that they were all officially recognized as some form of royalty under Lucifer was no doubt a sign of their power, their abilities, the collective chokeholds they all had on their own sections of Hell. And here this...Radio Demon was, killing 45 of them, in one foul swoop. It was..chilling, to think about, to say the least. Hell was already scary enough as it is with the gangs and shootings; she didn’t need to know that there were mysterious unknown phantoms that could wipe out the whole damn City waiting to creep out of the woodwork too.

_"Skipping some unimportant dialogue between us, we both contemplated how such a phenomenon could occur. What magic would be used for such a thing? As my colleague offered earlier, it is theoretically possible that the mind is connected to the soul in some way. Soul magic, despite coming from the soul, does not appear to be capable of such tampering, but-"_

A knock suddenly rings into the house from the front door, shortly followed by two more, then another, in a sort of snappy, rhythmic tone.

Niffty’s eye snaps upwards from the page, startled by the sound, and moves to flip the book closed, hopping down from the couch to approach the door. “I’m coming! Just hold on a second!” She moves to turn the knob, and upon opening the door, she can’t help but grow a huge smile. “Oh, hey! You’re finally back! I was wondering what was taking so long!”

"I have a nasty habit of talking too much, yes." Alastor chuckles, walking inside, Nora following after him. "Apparently he wanted to run a few tests for my placement. Went rather well, if you ask me."

“Tests?” She notices the blood on his clothes, and her eyes widen with shock, with horror, and she moves to hop up onto the couch to get a closer look, hands raised up as if to touch the cloth but hesitating at the last second. “W-What did they _do?!_ How did you get blood on your shirt?! What happened? Are you ok?!”

Nora, who had moved to stand off to the side, shakes her head softly. “He is uninjured. There was merely a...accident.” 

Niffty’s eye shifts to Nora, then back to the bloodstains, pointing a finger at it. “What kind of _accident_ made _that?!”_

"I did." Alastor's smile softens, and he gently takes her hand and puts it down by her side, having leaned back as she made a move to get close. "It appears my instincts work a little... _too_ well. But I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about." He takes a small step back and glances at the coffee table Niffty had set her books on, and then over to the staircase. "Although, speaking of, I may go and change my clothes. Hopefully this doesn't set..."

Niffty can’t help but stare after him, words dying on her tongue the moment they try to rise up, and she watches, silently as he makes his way up the stairs. There was the sound of a door opening, then closing, and then silence. 

Nora glances over to her, after a moment of silence, the grin that was normally present on her face now nowhere to be seen. “...If I were you, I’d try to be more careful around him, dear.”

"I...." Niffty tears her eye away from the door and swallows as she sees the look on Nora's face. She frowns softly. "What do you mean exactly?" More importantly, why was Alastor acting so blase about hurting someone else, even if it was on accident? He had those circles under his eyes as well....

There was another pause, and Nora’s gaze tilts down towards the floor for a moment before looking back up. “He...I don’t know if you know this, but he seems to have a tendency to...violently lash out when taken by surprise. Hence the...accident. One of Pentious’s tests involved a surprise attack, and, when he had been tackled, he..” She hesitates, glancing toward the stairs, before sighing. “...I just want you to know that it would be best for you to be careful, alright?”

"...Oh...." She follows her gaze. So Alastor had lashed out and.... probably did some damage to whoever jumped him. She winces as she recalls the scene she had found him in. "Yeah, I... I'm not entirely unfamiliar with it. Not! Not that he's done anything, but he's explained to me, uh..." She shrugs, sliding down the arm of the couch to sit on a more comfortable cushion. "A sort of - illness? He doesn't like talking about it, but there seems to be something about aggression linked to it."

“Illness?” Her head tilts at that, and her gaze flicks to the stairs again before she walks closer, sitting down next to her on the couch. “What sort?”

She hums, looking aside. "I don't know if he'd want me telling other people about that..." She remembers the jaws snapping at her, the look of control as he held himself back, the strained sound to his voice, the silence from behind the door. That wasn't Alastor. Well, it was. She could tell in his eyes and how he responded that he had been coherent. But it was clear he didn't _want_ to be like that either. He was fighting something. The fact he didn't like talking about it probably spoke to some kind of self repressive emotions tied to it as well.

This time Nora actually frowns, and she folds her hands together, letting out a sigh. “Well, whatever it is, it seems to be..volatile, at the very least. Are you certain that these violent episodes don’t pose a threat to you? From what I can see, they seem to be triggered from sudden or unexpected touching. Almost like reflex.”

"Triggered by touch?" She frowns for a moment, then shakes her head. "No, it's... I'll be fine. I know I'm small, but I also worked in a hospital most of my life. And I'm fairly certain it's not that simple for him, though I wouldn't be entirely surprised if it was someone he didn't know...." She considers how he's flinched or subtly moved away from her in the past. He does that with her despite knowing her.

“Hmm...If you believe that you are safe, then I’ll believe it as well. But if something ever happens, you can come to me. Alright?” She swivels her head down to glance at her.

"Um, yeah, of course." She offers a faint grin. "I, um - oh, I forgot to tell him! I got pizza in case you two are hungry." She hops off the couch. "Do you want any? I know I'm starving."

That actually gets a small grin to come back to her beak, teeth poking out from the seams. “Heheh. No, dearie, I’m fine. Thank you, though.” She glances over toward the books. “Have you gotten a chance to read through my research? What do you think of it?”

"Oh! Yes! It's absolutely amazing!" She moves to the kitchen to grab a slice for herself. "There's so much in there that I'm just - I'm _trying_ to keep it all together, but there's just so much! Souls, magic, types of magic, types of demons - and I got to the second book, with your experiments on, um, you know, the news stuff, and, I mean, just, _wow._ You're really brilliant, you know?"

“Oh, you flatter me, dear.” She chuckles, a hearty one that seems to make some of her feathers ruffle a touch, her grin coming back full-swing. “I’m merely a doctor, in the end. Really, if anything, it was thanks to the people I worked with that I managed to gain so much knowledge on all that I could.”

"Oh, please. Don't sell yourself short. You did plenty of stuff." Niffty climbs up a stool and pulls one of the boxes toward her, and then looking to find a plate. "And I forgot a plate. Would you mind? It's in the cabinet over there."

“Oh, of course.” She moves to stand from the couch, making her way into the kitchen, taking a moment to tilt her head so that the brim of her hat doesn’t scrape against the doorway. “I’m open to answering questions that you might still have. I understand that some of my research may be a bit...difficult to swallow at first.” She moves to retrieve a plate from the cabinet and hands it toward Niffty.

She takes the plate and pulls out two slices. They weren't entirely cold, surprisingly. "Well, I think I mostly have questions about the last kind of magic, but I think you meant that? There were a lot of bits where you said you were keeping things separate for safety reasons, which makes sense. It sounds like dangerous stuff."

“Oh, indeed.” She nods after a moment. “The amount of times I kept worrying over everything in my home exploding or catching on fire just from the processes _alone_ were enough to keep me awake for at least two days. I lost track of how many times my colleagues had to take the coffee maker away from me so I wouldn’t keel over from a caffeine-induced heart attack.”

Niffty giggles. "I can only imagine. Once you get your head in on something, you can't help but try and figure it all out." She takes a bite of her pizza and swallows. "You know, it's probably just because I'm new around here, but I didn't know Lucifer had a Court? Like, I guess it makes sense, but I always thought he was working alone."

“Oh no, the King of Hell has far more power than any Overlord could ever hope to amass, and part of the reason for that is because of the Court. They’re said to be Lucifer’s own brethren, fallen angels that joined his armies the day that they attempted to destroy the kingdom of Heaven and kill The Almighty. People in my time often spoke of how shooting stars were actually the bodies of those angels, set aflame as they were banished and cast into the pits of Hell.”

“Huh. Fallen angels as shooting stars...” She thinks about it for a moment, and can’t help but recall nights spent with cheap telescopes sitting in the backyard amid the trees on clear nights. She had seen two in her life, which was probably more than most people could say. None of the wishes came true. “It’s weird thinking that there’s more fallen angels than just Lucifer. The book said there was something like seventy? But now there’s, like, twenty-five?”

“Indeed.” Her grin seems to fade from her beak, turning into more of a delicate frown, a grimace, almost. “It’s...quite concerning, truth be told. The Court are certainly far more powerful than that of the common sinner, and some would argue that they’re even stronger than that of the Overlords. But, the trickiest thing about them is that, aside from their names, no one really _knows_ who they are. They’re meant to blend in amongst the populace and never stand out, spies that act as Lucifer’s eyes and ears at all times. You could bump into one in a cafe, sit next to one in a theater, trade drugs with one in an alley, and you would never know. Not unless...” She lifts a claw up to tap at the glass eyelid on her mask. “..You know when you’re looking at one.”

“And how do you know when you’re looking at one?” Niffty tilts her head. “If they blend in so easily, they must look like everyone else. Unless it has to do with their magic? But even then there’s powerful magic users down here.”

“While that is true, there’s also the fact that fallen angels, while they are true denizens of Hell, also happen to be different than that of Made Demons. For one thing, they have no true souls, and in a place like this, where the spirits of the damned fall every single day, that makes them quite easy to spot.”

“But our souls have been taken too, so we also don’t have souls. Unless-” She snaps her fingers. “Oh! I get it. The diagrams, right. We kinda look like we have a hole in our chest, and they don’t, right? But that’s if you can look at the soul. Can you look at people’s souls? I wonder what that’s like. Must be weird. Can you look at your own soul? Or do you need a mirror for that? And you said that everyone’s soul is a little different right? I wonder what mine looks like.”

The grin comes back at full force, toothy and large, and Nora can’t help but laugh, shoulders shaking as she does so. “Hahaha!” She snorts a bit, shaking her head, laughing through her words. “N-No, dearie, I can’t see a demon’s actual physical soul, since they aren’t there anymore.” Her laughter dies down, though she still grins. “The most I can see is a sort of...silhouette of a person’s body, and then the hole where the soul used to be. Depending on the strength of one’s magic, I can also how that magic sits inside their body, and how effective they are at using it.” She tilts her head to peer down at Niffty through an eye. “You’re still fairly new, so your magic has yet to develop and become stronger, but from what I can see, it has potential. The ability to fling flames is one many find useful down here.”

"Ah, yeah, I've seen that a few times." She can't help but flush at the misstep in words, and she looks aside at the mention of fire. "But, um." She clears her throat. "So, the silhouettes look different because the souls look different. Have you ever seen a fallen angel, though? Gotten a look at them, I mean."

“Hmm..” Her head swivels back straight and she taps the edge of her beak with a claw. “Once, I believe. Only once. Their magic was like seeing a snowflake in a desert; something that by all logic seems impossible, but you just can’t refute the fact that you saw it. Their silhouette was completely whole, as to be expected from a non-mortal being, but there was something...else, to them. Something that I’m not quite sure of.” She tilts her head. “Of course the fallen angel I happened to see was also Lucifer himself, so that might have something to do with it.”

“Oh.” She blinks, surprised, though she guessed she shouldn’t have been surprised. “Right. I keep forgetting he actually does public events every now and then. And you’ve been here a while, so I guess it makes sense you’ve seen him.” She hums and takes another bite of her pizza. “He has a daughter, right? And he’s married to... Lilith? I really haven’t kept up with politics.”

“Indeed. Their daughter is named Charlotte, though the common nickname for her is “Charlie”. She’s quite the happy gal, if public images are correct, surprisingly cheerful and nice for the daughter of Hell’s own King.” She chuckles a touch at that. “Not that Lucifer minds, though. From what I’ve seen, he’s a bit of a...Oh, how do I phrase it?” She taps her beak again, then seems to give up. “You know those fathers that love their children more than anything? The ones that try their damndest to make them happy?“

Niffty smiles softly. “Yeah, I do. He’s like that? He can’t be half bad if he’s like that. I mean, granted this is Hell and he reigns over it, but...” She shrugs.

“I wouldn’t know myself, dear. I’ve only met him once. Well, technically twice. Never actually managed to talk to him. Only saw him from afar and up close.” She chuckles a touch. “You aren’t the first person to realize that Lucifer isn’t as bad as the texts said he would be, I can assure you.”

“It’s weird thinking about it.” She kicks her feet, staring ahead of her in thought. “I used to be pretty religious in life, but now everything’s just... Well, I dunno. I don’t think I’m not religious, but it’s like I’m getting more answers down here? Which is weird, because it’s Hell.” She tilts her head. “And it’s weirder thinking that the Devil isn’t all that bad because all I’ve ever really heard before is that he’s out to ruin mankind and overturn society and all that, and while I guess that’s still possible, and he’s really powerful and all, he doesn’t seem.... All too invested in that? It kinda seems like people hate him because he’s, like, the most powerful guy down here, and people hate powerful people just for the sake of it. I dunno.”

“Hehe. Well, most _might_ say that he is the most powerful, dear, but some people tend to think otherwise too. After all, with a family like the Von Eldriches in the midst of Hell, no one really knows what to expect when it comes to the the details of the Magne family.”

“Von.... Eldritch?” Niffty blinks at her, then shifts to lean closer to her in her seat. “I’ve never heard of them before. Are they really more powerful than Lucifer?”

“Hm?” She tilts her head, then tilts it back. “Ah, yes, you probably haven’t heard of them.” She tilts her head the other way. “Well, while _some_ believe that they are, no one really knows for sure. They’ve been in Hell for as long as most can remember, and in that same time, they’ve always had quite the allegiance with that of the Magne family. No one knows why, not for sure. Some believe it’s because a fight involving any of the Von Eldriches and the Magne family would result in the destruction of Hell itself and Lucifer wants to avoid such a grim conclusion as much as possible. Others believe it’s because one could just as easily destroy the other and they’re merely trying to keep the other at bay. Though, all of this speculation is subject to change considering who you talk to. It all comes down to who believes which family is stronger, in the end.”

“Huh.” Niffty thinks about it, finishing her first pizza slice. It made sense for powerful people to ally themselves with each other. That’s kind of how it’s always been, in her eyes.

Footsteps come down the stairs and Alastor makes his way into the room, sporting a dark grey undershirt and a lighter, almost silvery vest. He grins at the both of them. “I heard something about destruction and had to stop by. Oh! Pizza! You went to the shop down the street?” He rounds Nora and grabs a plate from the cabinet before glancing through the boxes and pulling out a slice of sausage.

Niffty can’t help but straighten up when she sees him come into the room, a grin growing on her face as she nods. “Yeah! It’s actually a pretty nice place. Managed to get two full pizzas for the price of about..” She tilts her head, trying to think. “Two Knights, and a Count. Pretty good deal if you ask me. And the pizza ain’t half bad either.”

“Uhhh....” She tilts her head, eye darting off to the side for a moment. “I think they do? Deep-dish is a Chicago thing, right?”

"Supposedly. Never had any from Chicago, but I've had imitations at the very least." He takes another bite, and it's almost comical with how large his teeth are.

“I can recall one of the options of the pizza being Chicago-style, so that was probably it. You sure you don’t want any, Nora?” She glances over towards her. 

Nora’s mask had shifted to glance towards Alastor, but after a moment, turns back to Niffty, and she shakes her head. “No, no, I’m fine, thank you.” She glances toward the living room, then back at Niffty. “If you don’t mind, I think I ought to be getting back home.”

"Oh, really?" Niffty deflates a little, but grins again after a moment. "Well, you are a rather busy person. You probably have a lot of stuff to do. Let me get you your books and show you to the door." She grabs a napkin from a small tray on the table and hops off, moving into the living room.

“Thank you, I appreciate it .” She gains a small grin again, walking out of the kitchen, and into the living room, moving to collect the books as Niffty hands them toward her. She glances back toward the kitchen entrance before lowering her voice into a whisper. “Niffty, my dear...Promise me you will be careful. Ok?”

She blinks at her, then catches the glance and sighs, lowering her voice to match Nora's. "I'll be fine. I promise. And I'll come see you if anything happens, though I doubt anything will happen."

“..Alright.” She nods once, softly, then straightens upwards, grinning as she fishes a key out from a pocket in her robes, handing it over. “Feel free to come over to my abode whenever you like. I can’t quite guarantee that I’ll always be around, but you’re free to wait until I come home.”

"O-oh, thank you." She takes the key gingerly, as if given some sacred artifact. She grins widely up at her. "I'll make sure to come visit if I have questions or just wanna talk. I may continue helping people here like I was before, treating illnesses and all. I imagine at some point I'll run into something I'm not used to."

“Oh, in that case, do contact me in case you need help. I know my research is a bit less on the medical side nowadays, but I can still hold a steady scalpel!” She flashes a a grin and chuckles a touch, before moving towards the door, opening it, her head turning back to give a nod. “Good evening, Niffty.” For a moment, she pauses, then raises her voice a touch. “And good evening to you as well, Alastor!“

"Good evening, Nora."

"Good evening! Safe travels!" Alastor sounds like he's talking around a mouthful of pizza.

Niffty frowns in his direction. "I swear if he's eating all the pizza..." She shakes her head and turns back to Nora. "Feel free to stop by anytime as well. More than likely, I'll be here, unless I'm scouting about. Heh."

“That’s good to know. Thank you.” With that, the door shuts behind her.

Niffty exhales slightly and turns back toward the kitchen. "There better still be pizza in there, Alastor."

"I have no idea what you are insinuating."

•••

Midnight in Hell is rarely different than midnight on Earth. Half of the population is asleep and resting off the excitement of the day, and the other half is wide awake or caffeinated enough to do whatever little tasks they left to desk lights. Niffty belongs to the prior group. Alastor belongs to the latter.

He stands in the middle of the unfurnished basement, eyeing the concrete walls and bare shelves. The stairs behind him are wood, but solid, sturdy, only creaking on the third and fourth step. There’s a half wall to his right, making the place appear almost split into two rooms, but not quite. There’s a few empty clay pots in one of the corners. Two laundry machines sit on the other end of the half-wall. The rest of the room is entirely barren. There are no outside entrances. Not even a small window where the basement peeks above the ground.

“Well, that’s no fun.” Alastor rubs his chin and hums, considering his predicament. He can’t use the basement to hide the bodies. Again.

But at the same time, using one of the rooms upstairs was no good either. It was a part of everything else in the house, which meant that every move he made, no matter how small or subtle, would result in the house’s creaking and groaning and thumping, and if he was going to be busy in this hypothetical room, he couldn’t constantly be going up and down the stairs every night, nor could he use the fire escape. That would only draw suspicion from his housemate, and he couldn’t afford to have her suspicious of _anything_ if this whole arrangement was going to work. He huffs again, one of his ears flicking in distaste, circling the basement’s room again. He had to make this work, somehow. There’s no way he _couldn’t._

Alastor taps his chin, turning around slowly and looking over the room again. It’s _possible_ he could hide something down here. He could theoretically get a secondary freezer and use it, maybe install a false bottom on it. But it’d be a hassle getting to his ingredients if they end up actually stocking the thing. And he can’t simply get one for himself. Freezers are communal appliances. He could get a mini fridge and keep it in his room, but he’d rather not have the temptation so close. He needed somewhere to prepare the meat as well. He didn’t like the idea of using the same tools or boards for regular foods, which would cross-contaminate Niffty’s food. Granted, he could always do it at night. He _is_ a bit of a night owl, after all. And it wouldn’t look too bad if he told her he made his “dietary” meals at night. She already knew he didn’t like talking about it. It would make sense if he didn’t like sharing the recipe either. But even then, he’d need to store the demon meat somewhere before prepping it.

“Hmm....” He didn’t like the idea, but maybe he’d have to kill someone and prep them in the same night. Maybe he’d be able to do that. There’d be more of a chance Niffty would find out, though. He didn’t like it. Not to mention, there was also the fact that this residential area was much more densely populated, much more clean, and considering it was smack-dab in the middle of Rosie’s territory, the chances of any incoming attack from any Overlord or ambitious crime gang or arsonist or _anyone_ was much lower than it usually would be. He couldn’t simply go and pick up bodies from the rubble, since there would be no bodies to begin with, nor any rubble. And he couldn’t resort to butchering people while they slept either; most of these houses, these places, were much more simple than metal locks and wooden walls. They were modern, equipped to properly keep people from simply cracking a window or picking a lock and getting in.

He still has enough food to last the rest of the week, but he’d need more soon. And the last thing he needs is to be going to the Black Market and asking for limbs again. He could do it, but the number of brows he’d raise would be worrisome. Not to mention it’d be quite a trek. And he had to worry about Pentious seeing anything, if he could really see through the mark at least.

So many unknowns. He hated working with unknowns.

Alastor takes a small breath and climbs back up the stairs. He needs to take this one step at a time. He couldn’t be worrying himself over everything at once. He’d only make himself into an obstacle that way. He takes a seat at the sofa and pulls a small notebook from his inside pocket. If he could find a hiding spot in or near the house, then he could broaden the range of his kills and make less of a disturbance in the neighborhood. Which means he needs to list all the possible hiding place he could think of, even if they weren’t optimal.

 _Basement. Open room on first floor - hardwood floor, paneling. Attic bedroom. Fire escape._ He exhales and crosses fire escape off the list. He isn’t going to do that. _Neighbor’s basement? Unused house._ He taps the pen on his lip after a moment, humming to himself. The other house could probably do for now, but at the same time, it was also a vacant _for sale_ house that could be bought at any moment, and seeing how it presumably was already filled with furnishings, much like how this house was, then someone, theoretically, could buy it at any point and walk right in. He wouldn’t want anyone to accidentally walk in and find him in their basement, cutting bodies into tiny pieces; not if he wanted to wind up with another body to deal with and a very pissed off Rosie who suddenly has a dead client and a fictional killer running around her pristine neighborhood. She knew too much of his past anyways. She’d be able to connect the murder to him and then she might actually try to chop his head off. Not to mention the possibility of her _finding out._ He has no doubt Rosie wouldn’t be _absolutely_ horrified, but he likes keeping his secrets. He doesn’t like the idea of dealing with the fallout of said secrets. Unless they benefited him, of course.

He exhales and leans his head back on the sofa. The paneling wasn’t a horrible idea, if he at least chopped the body before bringing it back. He’d done that before. Organ harvesting isn’t exactly anything new in Hell. The only problem would be making the paneling easily accessible without Niffty figuring it out. He could ask to make the room a little study for himself. But then again, Niffty wanted to use the first floor bedroom for guests and patients, if she ever found any. She may want to use the room for medicine. He could take one of the empty rooms on the second floor... One of them had hardwood, if he recalled properly. But it’d be on the same floor Niffty sleeps on.

His smile strains for a moment. This is even more difficult than he had initially thought.

He lets out a heavy, heavy sigh, and he actually lifts up a hand to let it run down his face. He was fine for now, he knew he was, but the day would soon come where he wouldn’t be. He didn’t want it to reach that point. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when he was just starting to get back on his feet again. When he finally managed to get to a safe place and stick it to Valentino and all his pathetic goons, when he was now under the employment of an Overlord who apparently expected nothing less than perfection from him, as far as he was aware. He sighs again, and he leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. He didn’t know what to do, and that was a fact that was hard to swallow. 

A knock comes from the front door.

His head snaps up, staring at the door with a small amount of adrenaline coursing through him. He waits a moment, straining to hear anything, but nothing comes. He sees nothing through the windows either. Closing his notebook and tucking it into his inner pocket again, he stands and slowly approaches the door, taking care to muffle his steps as much as he can. He sees no one through the eyehole of the door, but just barely in the peripherals is a box sitting on the top stop. His brows furrow, and he opens the door, looking for anyone still lingering in the shadows. His ears prick, his muscles tense, and he waits, for a long, long moment. He hears no heartbeats, smells no blood or sweat or anything that would indicate another person being anywhere nearby. All he smells is the cold night air, and he slowly looks down toward the box; it was quite a large one, cardboard, the rim at least going up to his knees, and it was sealed up with a large piece of duct tape, rather expertly, not looking a hair out of place or damaged or dented.

He narrows his eyes at it, considering whether or not to ignore it, burn it, toss it, or open it. For all he knows, it could contain explosives, or poisons, or something of that nature. There isn’t even a name attached to it. There’s no reason he should open it. No reason he should want to open it.

He still wants to open it.

“Okay, fine. You win.” He gently closes the door behind him and kneels beside the box, holding one hand up with a flame for light and using the talons on his other hand to cut through one side of the duct tape. He waits to see if any vapors or smells of a fuse burning come out from the box.

Nothing. No vapors, no burning sensations, not even the sharp smell of sedatives or anything of the sort. Nothing except...

His eyes widen. He feels his heart skip a beat, his stomach drop, his blood chill. And even then, despite the terror, he feels his mouth start to salivate.

“ _Christ_.” He brings a hand to his mouth, trying to cover his nose, but the smell simply hits him again, so he pulls open the door, heaves the crate into his arms, and swiftly heads back inside, closing the door behind him with one of his feet. He quickly, but quietly - no need to wake up Niffty - moves toward the basement again. He turns around the half wall and sets the box down, forcing himself to swallow as to keep the saliva from escaping his lips. He kneels next to it and cuts the rest of the tape off, pulling off the lid and praying he isn’t smelling what he thinks he’s smelling. 

Miscellaneous lumps stare back at him, in all different shapes and sizes, neatly arranged in stacks, wrapped up tightly in sheets of pure white paper, topped off with dark ribbons of black thread. His claws tremble against the edges of the box, his heart starts to pound, and he slowly lifts one of the lumps out of the package. It was thick, heavy, at least a pound, maybe more, shaped ever so slightly like a T-bone steak, and as he held it closer to his face, the smell only intensified even more, and this time he can’t hold back the drool that slides down his chin. He pressed a talon to the paper, hesitating, quivering, before finally shredding it open, the ribbon snapping like a twig before falling away, the paper tearing, splitting open to reveal a dark slab of meat, thick, juicy, blood still staining the bottom of the paper where it came to rest.

“Dear God....” He wipes the drool from his chin and quickly rewraps the parcel, placing it amongst the rest of the present. He can only assume its a present. If someone had been trying to intimidate him they’d have left the body parts intact, not butchered like prime rib. The smell almost becomes too much for a moment, and he closes the lid and walks away for a moment without checking the rest of the package. He leans against the far wall, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger by taking deep breaths. 

Demon meat. Someone had sent him freshly cut, freshly killed demon meat. He presses his forehead against the wall, focusing on the coolness of the stone. Someone knew. Someone _mus_ t have figured him out. But they weren’t blackmailing him. Yet. He takes another breath and turns back to the crate. His stomach rumbles. 

It was then, in the light of the basement, that he noticed something else. Something he hadn’t noticed before, somehow. An envelope, attached to the side of the box, taped there, a sort of creamy color, almost blending into the surface of the crate. He stares at it for a moment, before slowly walking back over, hesitating for a moment before grabbing it. The tape that held it to the box comes off easily, and there was a moment of silence, debating on wether or not to simply burn it in the kitchen sink, rather than read it. If it _was_ blackmail, somehow...

His teeth grit. He opens the envelope, shredding the top of it with a claw, and he moves to remove the paper from within. It smelt faintly of wet ink, and when he unfurled it, he saw only a single word, written in elaborate cursive. 

_Enjoy._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild gore, torture, alcohol, mentions of racism, mentions of sexual assault
> 
> Thank you for tuning in for more Fired, Rehired! Thank you everyone for your comments and kudos, and please feel free to leave more below if the mood strikes you

“Are you _positive_ this map is the most accurate one you have?” Charlie can’t help but squint at the new rolled up map that she had in her hands, slowly unwrapping it to reveal an almost identical one to the giant map Lucifer had within his TV room, the only difference being it wasn’t covered in marble chess pieces and a mass of yarn. 

“I’m absolutely certain, dear. See? It was made just last year. Color coded and everything.” Lilith extends a hand to point at the small label beneath the actual map, written in ink. _Pentagram City, 1960._

“Right, I’m just checking. God, I wish I had this last night. Would’ve been useful.” She sighs and rolls the map back up before placing it next to her on the couch. 

“I know, dear. I’m really sorry about that; if we had known you would’ve ended up on the _South_ side, we would’ve warned you.” Lilith places a hand on her shoulder, her face stricken with worry.

Charlie takes a moment to raise a hand up to her mother’s own, giving it a soft squeeze, a grin lifting up her lips. “No, no, it’s ok. Nothing _that_ bad happened in the casino anyway.” Her eyes glance off to the side as her face wrinkles into a grimace. “Though I did see _Helsa_ in there. She was a big stuck up bitch as always. Kept insulting Dad.”

Lilith's expression eases at the first few comments, her hand moving to hold Charlie's, and then her face sours at the mention of Helsa. "Ugh. She hasn't aged a day, just like the rest of her family." She rolls her eyes and looks away for a moment, evidently fuming over past words she herself had heard. Then she sighs and looks back to Charlie. "Anything specific you want to tell me? Or do you not want to talk about it?"

Charlie looks away for a moment, then back again, then away again, her lips turning into a shy, almost nervous smile, already feeling her cheek marks start to flush a bit. “I, uh, may have been hit on by one of the waitresses that work there. And I ended up talking to a prostitute. So. That was fun.”

"Oh?" Lilith blinks, eyes widening slightly at the admission, and her lips pull up in a smile too gentle to be just a smile. She brings an elbow onto the back of the couch they are sitting on and the smile turns into a bit more of a smirk. "How'd you like it? The flirting and all."

Razzle and Dazzle, sitting next to them on the floor, both start visibly giggling. Charlie’s cheeks start burning harder, and she firmly stares at the wall. “I...don’t know? I mean, I was at one of the casino machines and she came up behind me and...” Her cheeks start visibly turning red. “I just _stood there_? I couldn’t think to move? My mind was a mess? I’m pretty sure she kissed me on the chin at one point? Like, 90% sure there was lip contact there?”

Lilith's lips stretch a bit more as Charlie rambles, but she holds back from even the slightest chuckle. "Sounds like you were a bit flustered, and that's alright, sweetie. It's honestly rather healthy to experiment, in my opinion. Just make sure you're safe, alright?" She reaches over and pushes her hair back behind her ear.

“I know, I know!” She lifts up her hands to rub her face, letting her fingers drag down her cheeks, wanting to make the burning sensation go away. “I get that, I do, I just - I didn’t even know that could _happen_ until yesterday! I had no idea that I could be attracted to girls! I mean, I _do_ , technically, I just didn’t think it would happen _to me!”_

“And that’s alright, darling.” Lilith gently takes her hands, pulling them away from her face. “Sometimes these things surprise us, and sometimes they don’t. But I’ll always be here if you have any questions or need advice or need to rant about something, alright? I can _probably_ answer all your questions.” She grins widely.

A loud clicking sounds from further in the castle, the familiar sounds of the castle gates unlocking and swinging open. Petite steps follow, quickly overtaken by the doors sliding shut once more. Soft sounds of quiet grumbling echo through the hall.

“That must be your father.” Lilith looks over toward the nearest doorway. “Sounds like he had a rough night.”

“Really? What was he doing while I was gone?” Charlie blinks, leaning up from the couch as the grumbling gets closer.

“A meeting went awry, so he had to go in and smooth things over. Sounded like someone didn’t show.” Lilith watches the doorway for a moment, then shrugs. “It happens from time to time, but he hates dealing with it. Hence my job.” She smirks.

Lucifer appears in the doorway - quite literally - with a large pout on his face and his scepter and suitcase in his hands. He tosses his suitcase onto a chair near the doorway and slides his scepter into an umbrella tin before walking any further into the room. His expression lightens a bit upon seeing them and a grin curls tiredly across his face. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were gossiping about me.”

“If anyone in this room were to gossip about you,” Lilith fires back, “it’d be you. Come here, honey.” She holds her arms out. “You look like you need some hugs.”

“ _All_ of them. Guh.” He lets his head fall back as he walks toward them. “Andrea is _such_ a handful at times.”

Razzle and Dazzle both start giggling even harder, Dazzle practically tossing his head back in a full on guffaw. Charlie herself starts to giggle as well. “Aww, it couldn’t have been _that_ bad. What did she do this time?”

He takes a deep breath and all but hops over the back of the couch to float down between them. Lilith chuckles and pulls him down into a hug from behind. “Discord apple routine. Nearly knocked my hat off throwing it this time.”

Lilith snickers. “She really does like playing onto discord.”

Charlie can’t help but shake her head in amusement. “I swear, you think people would just stop paying attention to her at this point. How many apples has she thrown now? Like, 25?”

“26, actually.” He drops his head back onto Lilith’s shoulder as he kicks off his shoes. “She threw two this time.”

“Such a rebel,” Lilith chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand and sits up a little bit, looking at Charlie. “I didn’t see you last night. How was everything?”

This time both Razzle _and_ Dazzle are laughing uproariously, the latter falling over while the former hits the front of the couch with a fist. Charlie can’t help but feel her cheeks start to blush again, and she crosses her arms, turning to face her father with a very wide, very tight grin. “Oh, it was _fantastic_ , absolutely _stupendous_ . Loved every second of it.” There was a pause, and her grin grows even tighter. “Hell is _sooooo_ much more different than I remember, Dad. Very. Very. _Different.”_

Lucifer blinks at her, silent for a moment, and takes in her expression and the laughter of the two guards. _Different_. He feels the horror drip into him piece by piece. “I... forgot to update you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, darling. We did.” Lilith smiles widely, and though he can’t see it, he can hear it in her voice. “She found her way to the south side and...”

“Oh my goodness.” The horror floods him, eyes widening almost comically. “And it’s been so long. _Oh my God.”_ He brings his hands up to his face, rubbing his cheeks for a moment and taking a deep breath. “Did - did anything happen?”

Charlie waves a hand dismissively, her voice practically _dripping_ with sickly sweet sarcasm. “Whaaaat? Noooo! I only ended up walking right into the _Moonlight Blitz_ on accident and wound up being _flirted with_ by a waitress who I’m pretty sure was also doubling as a _prostitute_ ! It’s no big deal! No big deal at all!” Her arms cross tighter and her eyes flash crimson. “I mean, it _would_ have been nice to know that the Overlord Valentino was actually a _pimp_ this whole time, but, hey, _accidents_ happen.”

“Oh my God, I am - I’m so sorry, Charlie.” Lucifer drops his hands into his lap. “I should have given you an overview of the territories. We should get her a map-”

“Already taken care of.”

“Oh, brilliant.” He smiles weakly. “Was that all that happened? Anything else?”

“She told me flirting is as far as it went.”

“Flirting. Right.” He still looks worried. Much more than Lilith had.

Charlie finally sighs, the crimson hue fading from her eyes as she leans over to give him a hug, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m just being a brat. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t find the flirting to be _bad_ , I just wasn’t prepared for it. At all.” She gives him a pointed look at that. “But, it could’ve been way worse. I’m just lucky that some nice guy saw what was happening and stepped in to tell the woman to knock it off.”

“Definitely. I’m so sorry.” He hugs her back, not sure what to say for a moment. And then, “Oh? You liked it? And who was this ‘nice guy’? I may have to send him a thank you note.”

She feels her cheeks burn even harder, and she lets out a bit of a sigh. “Yes, I liked it. Turns out I’m also attracted to girls now. The guy who chased off the waitress was a man named Angel Dust. Tall man, four arms, had a black and white eye, covered in fur.”

“Angel Dust.” He closes his eyes for a moment, then exhales. “I’ll see if I can get in contact with him. Sounds like one of the spiders. Do you want me to say anything to the waitress, or no?”

She immediately pulls back from the hug to shake her head, hands raised up slightly “No, no, no. She was fine, she didn’t do anything to me, just let her go.” She flops back onto her side of the couch, letting out a sigh. “...Ran into Helsa while I was waiting in line. That was fun too.”

“Ugh. Von Eldriches.” He rolls his eyes. “I imagine she was just as horrible as ever?”

“Yyyyup. Pretty sure she insulted you at one point. Said something about my hair and how you make me wear it like this, and when I said I _liked_ my hair down, she said something along the lines of _I’d have hated if he actually did anything to you._ Her exact words.”

“Oh.” He frowns for a moment, then scowls as the words hit and looks aside. “ _Oh_.”

“Maybe we should actually talk to her parents about that.” Lilith squeezes Lucifer around the middle. “It’s one thing to be rude, but it’s another to be floating accusations.”

“If you do, then leave me out of it.” Charlie looks away with a scowl. “I don’t want to see that bitch again for as long as I can.” 

Razzle and Dazzle, having stopped their laughing, glance at each other, before looking away too.

“Ah...” Lucifer opens his mouth as if to say something, then reconsiders and merely watches her.

Lilith sighs softly. “We’ll leave you out of it, but please keep in mind the alliance we have with them. You two can have your tiffs, but if it goes too far... they don’t have the kind of patience we have.”

“And we aren’t in a state where we can risk that alliance either,” Lucifer adds softly. “As much as we all hate them... There’s a reason they’re second in the food chain.”

Her hands ball into fists against her sides, and her eyes flash crimson for a moment before she blinks, and they’re back to normal. “..Yeah, sure.”

“Darling...” Lucifer glances aside as Lilith squeezes him again. “Well... I guess we all need some time to relax. I could make some smoothies? Would that help at all?”

Charlie is quiet for a moment, staring off at the wall. Her chest aches ever so slightly, and one of her hands slips into the pocket of her coat, cradling the monocle in her palm. The one she had promised to show to her father. 

Her thumb idly traces the outline of the glass, the line of the beads that end in a frayed thread. Her frown deepens for a moment, and she slowly pulls her hand away, leaving it within it’s hiding place. 

“...Yeah. Smoothies sound great.”

•••

“...so the southeastern quadrant should be ready before the others. Could be a bit of a problem if we can’t get the southwest, but we should be able to manage.”

“It definitely ssseems that way, yes.” Sir Pentious leans over the map covering his desk, tracing the routes his agents could take. “The Chariot should fit in here. We could always work more on the center south. Thinner, but more concrete.”

“We’d be dealing with both Valentino and Rosie at that point. It may attract too much attention before we can pull it all off.” Nora watches him as he fidgets with the map, writing little nonsense words only he truly understood in little squares making up the grid of the paper. “We could always separate the tasks. Let the Chariot in and send in the cavalry once things cool down.”

“Perhaps...Certainly would draw lesss attention, or at the very least, create a sort of falsssse alarm. They might simply assume we’re taking out a fledgling operation.” He clicks the pen in his claws once or twice before circling three more areas, one in the East, one in the North, and one on the edge of the Southwest. “At leasssst three new targets have been properly identified sssince last week. We have yet to know their names or their operations, nor their connections, but we know they are there. Which do you think we should look into first?”

“The North would be a risky case. We haven’t set as much structure there as we have in the other areas.” Nora eyes the map, going quiet for a moment. “Southwest would be safest. We haven’t targeted someone in our territory in a while. Might look suspicious to do otherwise.”

“Hmm. Perhapsss. Which agent should I go for? Ruby? Chameleon? Sniper?”

“Hm.” She eyes the district, the collection of buildings trapped within the circle. Each of them were good agents. They could each be the right choice. They could even potentially be paired together, though that would be more risky. Her mind couldn’t focus entirely on sifting through the memorized accomplishments of the agents. “Could be Chameleon.”

“Could be?” He glances up at her at that. “You don’t ssssound so sure.”

“All of them are rather skilled for such a task,” she sighs, “although I must admit that it would help to know a little more about the target. My mind has been a bit... sidetracked today as well. Apologies.”

Pentious merely huffs a touch, leaning back from his desk, arms crossing, pen clicking shut. “What’sss wrong, then? You alwaysss get sidetracked when something is wrong, and I want to know what it is.”

“Do you really want to know?” Her brow arches and she crosses her arms in return. “I promise you, knowing will only make you as distracted as I am. Maybe more.”

Pentious’s eyes narrow at that, and his tongue flickers. “...It’s about him, isn’t it? Don’t think I didn’t notice how you acted towards Alastor after that little magic show.” He puts the pen down, claws steepling together. “You saw something, didn’t you?”

“Hm.” Nora goes quiet for a moment, not moving, her own eyes narrowing behind thick glass. A small amount of tension builds between them. Neither of them move. Then her nostrils flare in a barely contained huff and she pulls one of her hands out from under her cloak and unfolds and slams a moderately sized piece of sketch paper in front of him on the desk. “It’s impossible. It doesn’t make any sense. _This_ is his soul mark.”

Pentious flinches back slightly at the sudden movement, about to complain about Nora wrinkling his map, then pauses and looks down at the paper set in front of him at her comments. His eyes widen almost immediately, expecting to see a solid, round imprint with perhaps a few symbols or holes surrounding it, but instead seeing a massive claw mark marring an otherwise perfectly symmetrical layout of orbs. Two rings of blank spheres, a few seemingly frayed at the edges, surround a much larger hole with tears crossing through it, making the depth of the soul mark somewhat harder to identify with the trenches cutting into it. It almost looks like scars, if something non-physical could have a scar to begin with. No symbols are present.

He doesn’t move for a moment, and his jaw hangs open, ever so slightly. His claws slowly pick up the paper, holding it up, as if that would somehow dispel the sight that had been drawn upon it’s surface. Finally, he clicks his jaw shut, and his eyes narrow. “...What does this mean? What can you make of this?”

“I have... no idea!” She throws her hands up in the air. “If he simply didn’t have any sigils floating around him, that’d be one thing. Maybe he could mask himself. But this...” Nora’s shoulders tighten, and then she exhales and runs a hand down her beak. “The organization makes sense, given his history, but the scars? He shouldn’t be able to walk, much less use magic. Yet he does! And with so little effort.”

Pentious sighs and places the paper back on the desk, tapping at it with his claw. “Nora, Nora, slow down, I can’t sssee souls like you can. What do you mean by organization?”

“These rings.” She moves around the desk to hover over his shoulder, pointing at them. “Perfectly concentric, twelve each, outer ring displaced to hover between and above the inner ring. You don’t see it very often, but it’s a positioning you usually see in higher ranking casters. See how each of these spheres can directly connect to the main soul?” She traces lines from each of the circles and to the center. “Less resistance between the soul and the output of magic, since there’s no reliance on connecting to another sphere. I still don’t know _precisely_ what makes these kinds of patterns, but I have a guess that it has something to do with a combination of personality and practice. Alastor has shown great expertise and precision in using magic, at least from what we’ve seen, and given that he’s a, well, a seasoned serial killer...” She shrugs and traces the circular patterns. “Neatness, orderliness bordering on compulsion...”

“Hmmm...And what about the scars?” He taps them with a claw as well. “You’ve described past soul marks to be a hole, yes? A perfect circle? What does it mean for there to be scarring like this? I wasn’t even aware that a demon’s aura _could_ have scars. It isn’t physical in the least, so how could it have ssssustained any damage?”

“That’s precisely the thing. I don’t know.” Nora traces them after he does. “It’s hard to see in this diagram, but here, at the upper right, the marks are deeper and larger, possibly where they start. They grow shallower but longer as they pull down to the lower left, like-” She imitates digging her claws into the top and yanking it away. “But that would insinuate there being anything to pull in the first place, and it’s not like demonic deals on Earth _rend_ souls. And souls are collected upon entrance to Hell, so it isn’t likely anyone would have been able to do this after he fell either. But it _also...”_ She hesitates, unsure if she should say her next thoughts out loud.

“Also what?” Pentious shifts, turning his head to glance at her, eyes narrowed.

“This... may be me jumping to conclusions, or having my head in the sky, or something, but... If someone _else_ did this to him, they would have to be left-handed, and more than likely had a more downward tilt or outward yank.” She mimics the motion against with her left hand. “But if _Alastor_ did it to _himself...”_ She steps back for him to watch as she brings her right hand to her chest and mimics pulling something away, tearing diagonally from, in Pentious’ perspective, the upper right to lower left.

That gets him to look back toward the drawing, and he brings a hand toward his chin. “...What’s more likely to you? That he did it himself or it was an act of violence?”

She follows his gaze, taking another breath. “It’s a close call, but... Pentious, did you notice what kind of magic he used in the testing facility? When he used the sigils?”

“Fire magic. Not that special, though the method of casting those sssigils is certainly unique. Why do you ask?”

She stares at him for a long moment. “His reserves _tanked._ I don’t think he used all of his magic in the presentation for us, more than likely used quite a bit to recover after your reprimand, but by the time he made and used those sigils, his energy output went into the negatives.” Nora lets that sink in for a moment. “He used _chaos_ magic.”

Pentious’s pupils slowly shrink, no doubt due to the horror of it all, and within an instant, he’s reared up, his claws on Nora’s shoulders, his grip kept tight, tense, and she can feel his hands quivering. His voice was a low hiss, and his eyes, narrowed with unseen intensity, glow a soft crimson as his hood flares outwards. _“Are you positive, Nora? Are you absolutely certain?”_

“I was going to tell you yesterday, but there wasn’t any time.” She nods gently. “It was _extremely_ controlled. He must have been using a percent of a percent of the amount of magic she...” She swallows and looks aside. ”...that she used.”

Pentious’s gaze lessens a touch at that, and he pulls his claws away. “..So it wassss a fraction of that sort of magic. A drop, ssso to speak.” He glances back toward the paper. “And yet...the fact that he didn’t show any sssside effects. No coughing up blood, no hallucinations, nothing that would indicate what...What _normally_ happens.”

“Theoretically, if it was _less_ than before and more controlled... the side effects would be less. So it isn’t entirely surprising that he didn’t pass out from it, in my opinion. But that kind of control...” Nora exhales and rubs her face. “Pentious, he said it had been a while since he had last used magic like that. I first thought it was about the sigils, or the transmutation of fire, but... If it was about _chaos_ magic... That might explain his control.”

“And it impliessss that he’s done it before.” His tail quivers ever so slightly before it starts to lash. “And that he’s mosssst likely _trained_ for it.” His eyes narrow again, and his hood bristles slightly as it starts to lower back down to press against the back of his neck. “..He said that his _mother_ taught him how to use magic...Were the sigils recognizable to you at all? Any kind of language you could decipher?”

"Alchemical, mostly. Some are Voodoo related, but I'm passing them through Specter first to make sure. Some seemed like gibberish, but perhaps more general symbols. I'll look into them again when I find the time."

“Hmm..” His tail twitches again. “Voodoo is a ssspiritual religion...Perhaps it is posssible that their magic tends to focus on the spirit as well?” His eyes narrow, and he slithers out from behind his desk to pace, arms moving behind his back. “No, no, that can’t be right. Even with magic being able to be cassst on Earth, there’s no way it would be capable of tapping into _Chaos_ magic of all things. Earth may have been created with it, but magic hasn’t been used on Earth in _centuries.”_

"Hasn't been used _notably."_ Nora corrects, watching him. "The Witch Trials have definitely made people more cautious, but there's no guarantee that anyone's _stopped_ performing magic. And it is possible for demons to reach Earth with Grimoires."

“Yes, but we’re talking about a _human_ tapping into _Chaos_ magic. Earth is fundamentally different from Hell; it functions on the rules of physics and natural law that God gave it. Magic, when performed there, is done from humans pulling it from their own ssssouls, or pulling it from the magic of demons that they made contracts with. I find it hard to believe that Chaos magic would be able to properly exist there at all, even if it _was_ entombed within the ssssoil. _Hell_ is filled to the _brim_ with magic, of all kinds, a proverbial bottomless well that can theoretically never be drained. Our bodiessss are magical transformations caused by our very _souls._ The sheer fact that a _human_ was able to achieve tapping into even a _modicum_ of Chaos magic without inssstantly dying or going mentally _insane_ is what vexes me.” He pauses for a moment, and his eyes narrow, his hood bristling again, starting to unfurl again. “Although...Considering what we know, perhapssss he _has_ gone insane...”

"It wouldn't entirely surprise me..." Nora trails off, considering the implications of a demon dead set against being "bored" living in Hell for almost thirty years now, amongst other things. "Although, if he is insane, he's not fully gone yet. Or he's just incredibly good at hiding it, which would also imply a sense of self-consciousness about it."

“Perhaps. I’m not entirely sure how insanity works, but I would think that a mortal man suddenly going and brutally killing people only to eat their flesh would classsify as such.” His claws trill on his chin, and his tongue flickers out in thought. “It would probably be bessst to keep a close eye on him from now on. See how he behaves and if we can build any kind of hypothesis..”

"That would be a good idea." She looks aside for a moment, thinking. "I should be able to set up times throughout the week to meet with Niffty and show her some of my methods. Those could become more regular. I think she would understand if I asked a few questions about him here and there."

“Hmm. I sssuppose. He seems fond of her, at the very least. Keen on making sure she knowssss little of his deeds as well.” He turns to slither back toward his desk, picking up the paper in a hand. “We both agree that thisss discovery cannot make itself known to Alastor, correct?”

She frowns. "I get the feeling he already knows about it, but if you mean for us to keep it under wraps and not let him know that we know... Should be simple."

“Hmm...I don’t doubt that he is aware of the damage causssed to his mark, especially if the theory of him being the one to cause it is true. But I don’t see _any_ way of him knowing about the existence of Chaos magic, nevermind _knowing_ that he can tap into it. After all, Chaos magic is the efforts of your research, is it not? And we’ve never made your research accessible to the public, for damn good reason.”

"At the same time, it's possible others are researching similar topics. But he is relatively young down here..." She taps her fingers against her beak. "Perhaps it _does_ depend on what his mother taught him. If she knew enough for him to formulate his own hypotheses, and then once in Hell proceeded to test them...." She shrugs. "It doesn't seem like a sore subject to him. I imagine it'd be easy to get him to talk about it again."

“Better you than me, in any case. I doubt he’d be as open to talking about such things to one such as I.” His tongue flickers out, and he couldn’t help but smirk ever so slightly. “I’m starting to get the feeling he doesn’t particularly _like_ Overlords. Adorable.”

"Really?" She blinks at him and crosses her arms. "I got the opposite take from him. You two have a bit of a rocky start, but he talked to you quite a bit more than me. And I'm fairly certain he saw me acting out of sorts yesterday. He may find it suspicious of me to ask questions like that."

Pentious can’t help but roll his eyes and scoff a touch. “Right, yes, let’s have me, the new boss to thissss literal serial killer, start asking questions about his _mother_ . I’m sure that won’t causssse any mental ticsss _at all._ ” That gets him to pause, and he hums ever so slightly. “..Come to think of it, he did give me an alias. Does the name New Orleans Butcher mean anything to you?”

"Hmm." She tilts her head to one side, then slowly to another. "I... may recall seeing a few texts on the name in the last few decades. Some orders that came in alongside a few of the books on you and other well known deviants."

“Textsss, you say? So, they wrote _books_ about the man?” His tail twitches, a hand raising up to his chin. “Hmm...It _would_ be easier to get more of an insssight into what he was like when he was alive, though I doubt any texts would go into any detail about his use of magic...It would be a ssstart, at the very least.”

"We'd also be able to find a body count. At least, what the officials found. But I don't think you should put the idea of talking to him aside. You mentioned he asked about tea shops, right?" She grins slyly at him.

“..Yes, he did.” His tongue flickers out, and his eyes narrow at her. “I gave him my top three favoritesss.”

"Then meet him at one of your favorites." Nora shrugs gently. "Let it happen naturally. If he’s already there, wait and see if he'll approach. He strikes me as the type who will."

“Tch.” His tail flicks and his claws move to adjust his bow tie, rolling his eyes, the face on top of his hat starting to flush a bit, even as it’s mouth pulls into a scowl. “Oh, yesss, _absssolutely_ , maybe we might even hold hands and find ourselves kissing underneath the moonlight.”

Nora poorly holds back a chuckle. "With how he kept trying to make you laugh, I wouldn't be surprised. Some poor, nobody serial killer joking with an Overlord of Hell? That's not just flattery, you know."

Pentious’s face turns into a bit of a scowl, and he huffs, hood bristling ever so slightly, the tips of his hair ruffling. “Forgive me when I say this, but I find such a notion to be enough to make a stuffed bird laugh. Sssserial killers are known for their charm after all, and until I have a better grasp on the man and how he works, I’m not going to let myself get sssweeped off my feet by some snappily dressed gigglemug that’s trying to become the next big time gal-sneaker to ever roam the ssstreets.”

Her shoulders shake in silent laughs. "Of course. An entirely valid mode of reasoning. He's dangerous despite the jokes. Maybe because of them." She looks back to the maps and her diagram, and rolls her sheet back up and tucks it into her cloak again. "I'll certainly try and get him to talk about his mother at some point. No need for you to worry about that."

“Very well.” He digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a pocket watch, flipping it open in order to check the time. “Hmmm...He’ll be here in about three hoursss. Has Loralai been informed of the new recruit to her group?”

“In paper. I was considering giving her a more in depth description in person. She should already be here.” Nora moves back around the desk, giving him some more room to lounge more comfortably.

“Hmm. Very well. I’ll ssssend her down to my office.” He rests his elbows on the desk, steepling his claws. There was a moment where he goes completely still, his eyes softly glowing crimson, hood slowly raising up from his neck to flare wide open, displaying even more eyes that, too, began to glow, and only after a couple of seconds, that glow fades and his hood drops down. “She’s on her way.”

“Perfect. We’re ahead of schedule then.” She grins at him.

“Indeed..” He glances down at his watch again, before letting out an idle hum, tail twitching. “Perhapsss after Alastor arrives, we go topside to ssstart our little investigation early. See if the library has anything about this man and his crimes.”

“Sounds reasonable.” She pauses for a moment, then smirks. “Should we look for new texts on you while we’re at it? It has been a while.”

His eyes narrow in annoyance and his tail flickers a touch. “..You phrase it like I’m some kind of egotissst.” There was a pause, and he sighs. “Yes, I’ll be ssssure to check on the volumes they have to see if any new ones came in.”

Her grin softens. “I really do hope we find something, Pentious.”

His annoyance fades from his face, and he lets out a soft sigh. “...I do too.”

•••

The streets are quiet. Well, as quiet as any street in Hell can get. The west side is incredibly more well-behaved than the east, no doubt as a result of the strangle hold boasted by several Overlords at once. Not that any of them would admit such a thing, of course. Sir Pentious is the clear and obvious public front. Rosie has her hands in everything, and more or less allows the chaos of shifting territories so long as her own business continues to flourish. And there were a few insurgents here and there from both minor gangs and, in theory, Valentino’s mafia. Any and all agents in the area keep a strenuous truce at all times, keeping each other in balance while simultaneously putting daggers to each other’s throats.

It’s the kind of atmosphere Alastor _revels_ in.

He hums on his way to work, occasionally giggling to himself at the speedy course of events that have led him to an imitation of domestic life. Poor luck striking him into better luck. He hears a few radios click on from the houses he passes and lets his smile broaden, calling a good morning to a passerby on the opposite side of the road who chanced to give him a longer glance than necessary. His own radio station was set to an easy course of jazz and ragtime for the day, something a little closer to his roots. He had given his morning briefing partly before Niffty had woken up and partly before she had made breakfast for the two of them. If he has the time and his current mood holds out, maybe he’d give his viewers a nightly briefing as well. If Hell decided to be less boring, too.

He approaches Nora’s house, pausing in front of the steps to look over the door and windows again, before walking up and rapping his knuckles against the door. He waits ten seconds for a response, checking his claws, and then slides Niffty’s key into the lock and opens the door. He continues humming, not bothering to call out as he casually walks down the hall.

He passes by the living room, which looks relatively untouched compared to when he saw it yesterday, passed the kitchen, which seemed to carry the stale, dull scent of cooking meat as well as baking sugar. A slightly longer inhale through his nose made it clear that Nora had apparently eaten a cut of steak for dinner, as well as a dessert of freshly baked cookies. When his eyes caught sight of the door to the basement, with the many, many locks, he couldn’t help but notice the sticky note attached to the door. Upon peeling it away from the wood, he noted that it was written in dark blue ink, scribbled down in neat, sharp handwriting. _PASSCODE FOR TRAM TUNNEL: 478650._

“Hmm.” He looks it over, front and back, and then folds it in his hands and turns away from the basement and into the kitchen. It wasn’t anything fancy. Rather modest. Two ovens, though. A tray of cookies sit under a glass dome, but nothing else sits out. He turns away and walks into the living area. Definitely made for comfort and impressions. Bookshelves. He bypasses the velvety couches for worn, cracking spines of texts. _Hamlet, Old Fortunatus, The True Law of Free Monarchies..._ He hums, looking at a different shelf. _An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, The London Medical Journal, The Christian Journal, Dead Souls, The Murders in Rue Morgue, The Deerslayer._ His eyes narrow. “Cute.”

He straightens and turns, exhaling softly, and then pauses and looks higher. Nora _is_ taller than him. He tilts his head, a small note of static playing through his teeth as he sees the three tomes Niffty had been sorting through on the higher shelf. He could just barely read the titles. _Spirits. Magicks. Discoveries._ “Hm.” The first two were incredibly worn, but the last looked newer. The spine is bent as much as the others, but less of it is flaking or fraying. He’d have to check them some other time. Hopefully when he had more time to check for magical traps or triggers. He returns to the door with all the locks.

Honestly, the sheer fact that the door had the locks on the outside and not the inside was the strangest thing about it. Though, then again, considering it was the entrance to the basement, it was probably given a bit more leeway in that regard; it would make much more sense to prevent something from getting _out_ of the basement rather than preventing something from getting _in_. He methodically undoes all the locks, all the chains, and when he swings it open, he takes care to also flick the light switch on, making his way down the stairs, an idle hum on his lips. He idly wondered what exactly it was that Nora researched, or at the very least, what exactly she kept down here. He can vaguely recall a room smelling like that of blood the day before…

He waves a hand and the locks all slide back into place behind him, if only for the potential liability of someone either following him or attempting to break into Nora’s house. He assumes she had done the same on her way out. His gaze travels over the shelves, then over to the wall of angel wings. Nothing seemed particularly out of order or different. Although... He fidgets and walks up to the display of wings, hesitating for half a moment before leveling two of the wings by half an inch. He steps back to look the rest over.

“Hmm...Perfect.” His eyes glance toward the grinning, polished mask of the fallen beast, of the angel that once wore it as they dove and looped and flew across the red skies of Hell, and couldn’t help but let his grin grow just a touch wider. “Bet you feel really silly wherever you are, right now. Thinking that Hell was a place for _you_ to slaughter to your heart’s content, completely bereft of consequences. Hah. Laughable. Utterly laughable.” He shakes his head, chuckling a touch, folding his arms. “So _pompous._ It’s pathetic, really.”

Angels, meant to kill demons? It never quite made sense to him. Sure, overpopulation and deals with Lucifer and all, but... nothing in the scripture said that was what angels were _supposed_ to do. But maybe that was the point. Lucifer would want them distracted and losing soldiers annually. It really was just a question of _how_ he had managed it. He shakes his head and spreads his arms as he walks toward the shelves hiding the keypad for the hidden door to the trams. “Oh well. I just hope you can still see what’s in front of you right now. Wouldn’t that just be a terrible existence for an angel? Trapped in Hell. Poetic justice, if you ask me.”

He idly pushes aside a jar that seemed to hold some kind of deformed rat within it, as well as one that seemed to have a pair of floating eyeballs within, managing to find the keycard, nestled against the wall, and though some keys had some kind of wear or tear on them, in that the numbers looked a tad worn out, it was still easy to use. He takes the sticky note and holds it up, his eyes flicking back and forth between it and the buttons, idly pressing down on them one at a time. “4..7..8..6...5...0..” The keypad beeps, the screen above the buttons flashing green, and within an instant, the bare part of the wall behind him splits and pulls away to reveal the same tunnel that he had seen before. Alastor looks over his shoulder for a moment, then adjusts the jars of miscellaneous substances before walking off, idly burning the scrap of paper as he walks into the tunnel, hearing the entryway close behind him. He doesn’t bother lighting the way, instead letting the glow from his eyes and teeth bathe the tunnel in an eerie fashion. He continues to hum the same song as before, uncaring for the acoustics or if anyone else were to hear him. At least an encounter would make the trip less boring. He’d really have to find a way to entertain himself in the future. It’d be a bit of a dangerous venture to let himself get bored, especially around such ingenious equipment.

The walk was a bit of a long one, as to be expected, but after a little while, the light exposing the rest of the tram’s tunnels was making itself more and more clear, and Alastor couldn’t help but let his grin grow just a touch. He still found it quite remarkable that Pentious was able to hide all of his most amazing inventions from the public so easily, especially when the actual construction of such equipment would’ve raised quite the uproar. Even then, he can’t recall any mention of tremors around the West side in the daily paper, or even when he broadcasted the news of Hell itself. How odd. He would have to ask the man himself how he was able to create such a vast network without causing any notable earthquakes. He steps into the tram, presumably the same one he had used the day before, and walks up to the little pedestal at the front of the car, unbuttoning his cuffs. The snake on his wrist blinks its eye open, glancing at him almost warily, and he smirks in response before turning it over the button as he had seen Nora do before. Such a cute little thing. 

The eye on the pedestal opens up, as to be expected, and once it catches sight of the eye on his wrist, it immediately begins to glow a dark crimson, quickly followed by the light beam that seems to come from it’s pupil. When it strikes the eye on the snake, Alastor feels itself tense ever so slightly against his wrist, hissing softly, as if it were trying to not wince, and when the light on the pedestal turns green and the beam fades away, the snake blinks rapidly. The mechanisms on the team start up, rumbling beneath Alastor’s feet, and there’s a soft jerk as the tram begins to move. Alastor tenses for a moment as the snake’s fangs shift ever so slightly under his skin, hiding a wince of his own as the phantom feelings of his insides churning into liquid return for a split second. He pulls his arm back as the tram starts moving and rubs his wrist before finding a seat. “Such an unpleasant thing.” He’d have to keep his little mistake in mind, now that he’s working on a team. The better behaved he is, the faster he’d climb the ladder, and more than likely find a position where he could be given a little more leeway. Hopefully one where he works on his own. It wasn’t often that he played well with others. The snake embedded into his skin lets out a soft hiss, an idle one, lacking any kind of venom, and Alastor can feel it’s tail shift against his elbow before it’s eye slowly slips shut, seemingly going dormant in an effort to keep itself as still as possible.

He can’t help but grin to himself ever so slightly at the thought of someone actually trying to kill him. It was just so adorable. Especially if it was with someone that was meant to be threatening, like a knife or a measly pistol. Even if said pistol was able to shoot something like concentrated bursts of light, much like the guns that Pentious had demonstrated via the test yesterday, he doubted it would be able to make much of a difference in how quickly he could knock someone out. And he _would_ knock them out if need be; Pentious made it quite clear that killing right back was strictly off limits. Though, maybe he should refrain from fighting for the time being. As annoying as it would be, it'd also prove to Pentious that he's at least _trying_ to reign himself in. He can dodge bullets, most of the time. Or he could let them hit. Let someone get in trouble for the very thing he had done. Hmm. If Pentious' response to him killing someone in testing his skills was to show off his venom, he'd be curious to see what someone established in the organization would receive. One of his feet bobs softly in the air. 

Soon, it wasn’t long before the walls of the tunnel began to intersect with other tunnels, before the cogs and gears rumbling beneath the floor began to grow a bit louder, and soon, the concrete walls dropped away entirely to reveal what he now knew as the hangar bay of the base. Many demons were still bustling around down below and around the suspended tracks, flying through the air or running around on the ground, and he swore he could even see the flare of ship engines as they began to take off or touch down from where they were parked. Most of them appeared to be the scout ship models, if memory of the one that he had spotted flying above Rosie’s Emporium served right.

"Hmm." His nails trill across the seats again. "What _are_ you planning, little snake?"

He couldn't even begin to guess, and not only because he himself didn't like planning something so far in advance, but also because he simply didn't know what everything he saw was capable of. He hated it. Hated that he didn't know everything. Hated that everything was on display and still so clearly hidden and convoluted and thrown about with smoke and mirrors. He didn't know where to look first. It was as if someone had thrown his own techniques at him but tacked on a few rules, and even then he couldn't figure out those added details. He hates it. But he loves it too.

He stands as the tram slows to a stop, the movement coming off too easy for the deceleration of the vehicle. He walks toward the doors and steps out as they open.

Within an instant, the cacophony of the crowd, just as dense as before, greets his ears, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes scan over what he could see. Scales, feathers, fur, and even chassis of cold metal, constantly weaving in and out of view, some disappearing down stairs, others going toward escalators, groups shoving themselves into elevators. He couldn’t help but blink, though, when the crowd seemed to part in certain areas, making it quite clear that they were making way for someone. And soon, the crowd parted just enough to reveal a familiar figure of slithering scales, gold and black almost seeming to glitter with the movements of his lower body as it pushes him across the floor, his eyes catching sight of the serpent’s smile as his mouth stretches into a grin, exposing hints of those sharp teeth, and those even more deadly fangs, protruding from his lips like daggers.

Alastor’s grin spreads across his face, unable to contain his glee at seeing the amount of respect and fear that passes through the crowd. He doesn’t move very far, merely watching the man navigates through the crowd, arms tucked neatly behind his back. Nora follows him closely behind, and Alastor feels his eyes narrow for a moment, though he couldn’t rightly tell why. She had been acting strangely last he knew, and specifically about him. There must be something that she knew. He could wait on finding out, but he’d have to push the nagging feeling aside all the same.

Pentious’s head was held high, his grinning visage appearing to be confident, almost smug, and when he finally reaches the place where Alastor stood, his grin takes on more of a pleased look, while Nora’s shoulders seem to stiffen ever so slightly. Pentious himself, moves to adjust his hat ever so slightly, before finally speaking, his voice ringing through out the air, somehow able to be heard above the din of the crowd. “Ah, right on time, I see. Nice to know that you’re the sort to be punctual.” Pentious’s hat was displaying it’s own smug grin, eyelid half-lidded, staring at Alastor with a look that mirrored it’s master’s perfectly.

“Oh, I’d be a horrible employee if I weren’t punctual.” His own grin widens snappily as he leans forward ever so slightly, one of his hands moving over his chest as if to cover his already inflated ego. He was wearing the same vest as the day before, though matched this time with the silvery-grey dress shirt, and not a speck of bloodstain could be seen on him. “You look like you’ve had a pretty good day so far, if I may say so myself. Interesting day ahead of you, or good news?”

“Merely looking forward to seeing how you fare working with your new teammates. I made sssure to pick the team leader that would be best suited to handle your...” He trails off, as if looking for the right word, grin never dropping from his face. “... _quirksss.”_

Alastor tilts his head and raises a brow, appreciating how Pentious keeps smiling despite the evidently conflicting emotions behind his words. “Should definitely be interesting for all of us. I’ve never had an employer take my wonderfully charming personality into consideration before giving me an assignment. I’m flattered.” The hand on his chest moves in the air between them, and he bends a little closer out of impulse before straightening and pulling his hand behind his back again.

“Hmm. I can tell. Needless to say, she won’t _entirely_ be completely lawless, so do try to keep that in mind.” His grin finally seems to drop a touch as his voice becomes a bit more firm. “As for what constitutes as your mission for today, after considering what you said about not being used to working in teams, I’ve decided to be a bit more generous and allow you the rest of the day to get to know your team better, just to make sure that any potential snags or problems will be ironed out before I actually give you a weapon and ssssend you out onto the field.” He raises a brow. “Sound fair?”

He blinks at him, a touch surprised at the offer, and straightens his head. “Of course. That’s more than generous in my books. I’ll be certain to give them a few leads on my stranger _quirks_ , as you put it, and be as amicable as possible.” His grin widens further and he rocks back and forth on his heels to get out some excess energy.

Pentious’s grin widens a touch, and his tail flickers from behind him. “Excellent. Glad to hear that you’re so enthusssed. I look forward to your report at the end of the day; feel free to come down to my office once you feel as if you’ve made up your mind on the team or not.” He then glances toward the tram car, gesturing to it with a hand. “I mysssself will be up topssside for a little while in the West end. If you need to contact me for any reason, remember that you can talk to me via telepathy. Underssstand?”

One of his brows arch, though he moves aside to free up the entrance of the tram. “What do you mean by _once I’ve made up my mind?_ I can decline the choice in teammates?”

His tongue flickers out, and his expression looks almost irritated, frowning at him. “Well, if you find they aren’t a good fit, I’m _certainly_ not going to ssssend you out with them on a mission! Especially not in the circumstances of you having a gun! That’s just a recipe for disssaster, and one I would _definitely_ want to avoid.”

“Oh, of course. Hahah! Silly me.” It isn’t often he laughs out of nerves, and he looks aside as he does so. Pentious is giving him an honest choice in this. How strange. He had expected any critique to be taken either personally or as bad faith, though it would make sense that such a large amount of sinners had found their way into his clutches and _stayed_ there for more than just the reason of the poison. A proper employer in Hell, and an Overlord at that. Or maybe his opinion of Alastor was simply low enough to assume he’d turn his weaponry on his allies if he disliked them enough. Or maybe he just knew enough about proper teamwork and didn’t mind shuffling resources to get the best results.

Pentious must’ve seen the look on his face somehow, because the smirk actually does come back, and he lets out a chuckle. “Trussst me, Alastor, you can’t imagine how many times I’ve had to work out a replacement for new recruits and new teamsss simply because they didn’t get along and decided the bessst possible option was to lodge a knife into each other’s throatsss. Hell is full of killers, and my job is to make sure they’re arranged in such a way that they _don’t_ decide to kill each other.”

“Takes quite a bit of skill to do that, from what I’ve seen. Hell knows none of the gangs or mafias have managed it.” He smirks, moving onward with the conversation as if the minuscule slip up hadn’t even happened, eyes locking back onto Pentious. “I imagine you’ve done a proper job in assigning my group, but I’ll make sure to take notes for any unseen disparity.”

“That’s all I can ask.” He slithers over to the tram’s entrance, setting a hand on the handle bar, only to pause and glance toward Alastor. “Any other quessstions you may have before I go?”

“Hm.” He looks aside, then back to him. “Which floor was it that has coffee again? I seem to have forgotten in all the excitement yesterday.”

“Hm.” That gets him to smirk even more. “Sector H. That’s where workers can take a break from their jobs within the basssse. Can’t miss it.”

“Then that’s all I need to know.” He grins widely and takes a small step back from the conversation. “Have a good day, Sir Pentious.”

“You as well, Alastor.” He actually moves to tip his hat before slithering into the tram. 

Nora glances at him for a moment, before actually walking up towards him, her beak open, as if to speak, but then seeming to hesitate for a moment. “I just...wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I’m not entirely sure what came over me, but I recognize that it was rude and probably not the best way I could have handled myself. So..My apologies.”

Alastor tilts his head again, his lips twitching up slightly. “No worries. Even in Hell, it’s not every day someone sees a fellow demon tear someone’s larynx out with their own teeth.” He chuckles, unable to help himself. “I’m glad to know you’re feeling better, though. I don’t know what I would have done with myself if it had been a lasting effect.”

“Heh...Yes, I suppose I haven’t seen that much. Surprising, considering how long I’ve been down here.” Her beak turns up in a soft grin, and she glances toward the tram, before she too tips her hat. “I have to get going. Do say hello to Niffty for me when you see her.”

“Of course, my dear. She told me to tell you hello earlier this morning before heading out. Seems she’s intent on figuring out all the nooks and crannies of the West side. I told her to be careful.”

“Ah, that’s good to hear.” Her smile turns a bit more fond, and she nods. “I look forward to meeting with her to discuss my research. Good day.” She tips her head again, and moves to step onto the tram, the doors closing behind her after she yanks them shut. 

There was a moment of relative silence before the tram visibly shudders, the eyes on the cogs making up the wheels sliding shut, before there was the soft jerk of the chassis and the vehicle begins to make it’s way back down the tunnel from where it came. He watches them for a moment, then turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd toward the elevator, humming as he falls into a line and waits his turn. Without Nora, he’d actually have to rely on his patience. Just an observation of his. Not a complaint. He isn’t entirely thrilled with the crowds, though. He generally prefers less busy settings. He can’t help but notice that a few people, the ones who manage to get close enough anyway, actually take a couple glances at him out from the corners of their eyes. In fact, even the crowd starts to try and sneak glances here or there, some looking pale, while others clench their teeth in signs of anger and aggression. It was enough to make him smirk to himself, ever so slightly; word must have spread fast through the grape vine, if people were already starting to gossip and recognize him for who he was.

Alastor wouldn’t start any fights. He didn’t need to, at this rate. He continues humming, acting as if he hadn’t noticed anything, arms loosely looped behind his back and shoulders squared professionally. How funny is it that just a few days ago he had no reputation (attached to his face at least) and overnight he had become so feared and hated throughout arguably the largest organized crime ring in Hell? And all he’d have to do to cement the image he truly wanted was to do nothing. The elevator he’s in line for opens, and a whole crowd of demons winds up pushing their way into the room, their faces immediately going stiff when they recognize that there was still enough room for Alastor to step into. His grin can’t help but widen, eyes close to crinkling from how hard he was smiling, and it takes great restraint to keep back the laughter that was starting to bubble up in his chest, merely walking into the room with the crowd, leaning over to press the button labeled “H”, while buttons E, F, and C were already selected.

The doors close in front of him and a tense silence fills the crowded room. He bites his tongue as a simple joke filters into his mind - _I swear I won't bite_ \- and passes off the small noise he makes as a sneeze. He notices in the corner of his eyes that a few people flinch at the sound. Wow. What monster did the gossip form this time? He was able to feel the eyes of his fellow demons around him, staring at him, watching him, and while some stared with the air of a frightened animal, ready to bolt if he so much as gave a _twitch_ in their direction, he could feel the staring of much more aggressive folk, their gazes burning against the back of his head as if they wanted to set him on fire with merely their eyes alone. His smile can’t help but stretch even further, and he has to physically hold himself back from starting to giggle. Ohh, imagine if someone actually tried to shoot him in an _elevator._ Or stabbed him. Or even merely tried to punch him. The elevator dinged for Floor C, and he hugs the side of the elevator as a couple demons slip out, keeping as much distance as possible as they pass him. The doors slide shut again and the remaining demons shuffle about into a more relaxed and spaced out order. Alastor raises his right hand, straightening the cuff and examining his nails. Round, long. Enough to scratch but not enough to kill. He'd have to do his best to keep them that way if anything happened.

It really has been a long time since he felt anything close to this, and it’s been an even _longer_ time since he had to concentrate on not actually killing anyone. Even when he was alive, he didn’t hold himself back with that same kind of restraint that he found he had to use now. It was a touch frustrating, but at the same time, yesterday’s accident was proof enough to him that his skills in making sure people _didn’t_ end up dead were sorely lacking, and he didn’t exactly want to be caught off guard or rusty at _anything_ nowadays. How embarrassing would it be if he slipped twice on the same problem? He's a calm, collected killing machine, not an out of hand, rabid psychopath. Well, now that he thought about it, he could be a psychopath. But not a rabid one. It's not like he's a doctor, though. Maybe he could ask Nora or Niffty about it. Get a professional opinion. He holds back another bout of laughter.

“What the fuck are you giggling about, huh?” 

A voice rose up from the elevator, and most of the other demons immediately went stiff, their eyes shrinking with fear. Only one seemed to remain completely stoic, a tall, wolf type beast, fur coated black, with visible red stripes, a scar running over his neck.

"Hm, just an inside joke between a friend and I." He looks up at him, grinning pleasantly and waving a hand in front of him. "We have a bet going on regarding the number of people I'm capable of pissing off in a week. I'd say I'm winning already."

“Tch.” The wolf’s lips curl up in a scowl, and he folds his arms, ears already starting to flatten. “Great, a smart mouth, _and_ a Grade A psychopath. Fan-fucking-tastic.” 

One of the other demons, unseen, makes a feeble attempt to shush the man, their voice a furious whisper. “Dude, _shut the fuck up!_ Pentious told everyone to not mess with this guy!”

“He tore out a man’s throat. If anything, I’m surprised Pentious didn’t just melt him and turn him into a wet stain on the floor.”

"Oh, he tried. Well." He tilts his head. "I don't know what he expected of my tolerance, and he didn't try to necessarily _kill me,_ but he got close. And I assure you, it was all a misunderstanding. I didn't know the rules at the time." He looks away, shrugging lightly. "If it means anything, I'd like to apologize to the man. I know first hand that it's never pleasant to have your throat torn out in such a violent manner."

“Yeah, sure. Like I’m going to believe that when you were walking out of Sector F with his blood still on your vest, grinning like an idiot, so fucking proud of yourself.” The wolf’s lips curl up to show off his teeth in a snarl. “You can’t even fucking attempt to apologize without grinning. Bullshit.”

"Hmm." His lips close over his teeth, but his smile remains ever-present as always. "Would it surprise you if I said I couldn't stop smiling? It's one of the ways Hell's been kind to me."

The wolf’s eyes narrow, and he growls lowly in his throat. “Yeah, right. You’re a fucking liar. I can tell just by looking at you. Pentious may have told us not to mess with you, but that doesn’t mean I have to put up with your horseshit.”

"Such a pity. I always get that response from the hounds of Hell." He rolls his eyes. "Think what you wish but one thing I don't do is lie."

“Bullshit.”

“Dude, just shut up!” Came the whispering voice again. “Stop trying to rile him up! Especially when we’re in an elevator and can’t go anywhere!”

The wolf’s ears flatten, but his lip slowly curls down and he goes quiet.

Alastor lets a moment pass, then exhales. “In all honesty, I should be apologizing to the man I killed yesterday. Sadly enough, I don’t know who he is or anything about him. So if anyone would like to pass the message along to him, I’d be forever grateful.”

The elevator dings for Floor E.

The doors open, and almost all of the other demons that remained in the elevator pass by, slowly glancing toward Alastor as they do so. By the time the doors close, the wolf is the only person that remains, his garb clearly that of a soldier, his uniform coated in thick armor plating, a cover for a pistol hanging from the belt around his waist. Alastor says nothing, merely setting his arms behind his back and letting the commute pass silently. A different kind of tenseness permeates the atmosphere, and he wishes that of anyone in the entire base, the first person to chew him out wasn’t a hound of some sort. Always trying to dig up his secrets, always trying to trip him up.

“...You better watch yourself, you know. I’m not the only person here who thinks you’re a piece of shit that deserves to get your head stomped in.”

“Oh, I’ve been warned already.” He flashes his fangs again. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

The wolf’s own teeth curl up in a growl, and his ears flatten. “Watch it there, freak. I might just decide getting melted is worth making you swallow your own teeth.”

“I’ve done that before. It’s not as unpleasant as you’d think.” Not entirely true. He’d gone through worse, but he definitely didn’t appreciate the feeling of knives in his throat.

“Tch. I can’t wait to see your bloody corpse get beaten into paste.” 

The elevator dings and comes to a stop at Sector H.

Alastor rolls his eyes once again and steps out of the elevator, looking about the rec room as the elevator behind him closes. A line of tables are entirely covered in card games, either played by a group or pairs or a single individual. A few demons lounge on the sofas, watching television or gossiping. His eyes land on a counter with a coffee machine, sink, and water dispenser, and he strides over to make a cup of joe.

Next to said coffee maker was a large wooden tray that was filled to the brim with containers that seemed to have all kinds of coffee grounds, a single plastic spoon meant to be used to scoop the grounds into the machine. There was regular coffee, french vanilla, decaf, colombian, etc. There was also an array of tiny sugar packets next to the coffee ground as well as a sticky note that read: _See fridge for coffee creamer._

Alastor sifts through the grounds and selects a dark roast, going through the processes of filling the filter and pouring the water in the machine. He has no use for sugar or creamer, but it was nice to know Pentious stocks them. He grabs a paper cup and waits for the coffee to brew, humming under his breath again. His ears prick slightly as the coffee machine starts up, mechanisms whirring softly as it began to heat itself up, the water container on the side of the machine slowly draining down as it does so. As far as he could tell, the distant chatter of the soldiers around him hadn’t stopped entirely, though a few seem to have gone silent that weren’t before. But then, just as quickly, the voices come back. The TV sounded something akin to a news reel, broadcasting the latest weather report.

“Temperatures are beginning to rise this week, as well as the potential for acid rain. Good thing all the landlords out there have gotten around to adding another layer of lacquer to those roofs out there!...”

The coffee steadily pours out of the machine in a thin stream, filling up and up as he watches. He turns after a moment and scans over the room, not looking for anyone in particular, but trying to get a general read of the room.

The demons who were currently playing poker seemed entirely disinterested in anything about the room around them, though it’s noted that instead of actual casino chips, it appeared that they were bartering with actual stacks of coins, and even what appeared to be a full on pistol. He even swore there was a gold tooth in there, and he had a feeling that it wasn’t a trophy after successfully knocking it out of some asshole’s mouth. The demons that were watching TV were sitting on the couch with a big bag of chips between them, idly shoving their hands into the bag and pulling out wads of said chips to eat, predictably scattering crumbs all over the floor as well as the cushions. One of them, some kind of giant bird-like beast, pauses with a chip half raised to it’s beak to speak to it’s companion. “Hey, you hear about how they recruited a new agent?”

“No kidding. When did that happen?” A frog-like person idly munches on a chip as he talks, his chin occasionally bulging outward with a soft croaking noise.

“Dunno when, exactly. I think, like, a month ago? Their code is something along the lines of, uh, Sniper. Sniper, yeah.”

“Seems kinda silly for a code.”

“Hey, they said that they choose their own codes, ok? Not the Boss.”

Agents, huh? Sounds like one of the higher ups, possibly a lone wolf position. Alastor turns back to his coffee and grabs the cup as it fills and takes a sip. He’d want that kind of position, if only because he knew he’d excel at it. Sniper. Hm. He moves to the nearby wall and leans against it, keeping his eyes on his coffee. He’ll finish this cup and then head up to sector F to find his crew. Annoyingly, he doesn’t know what any of them look like, or their names, but he had been told they’d either be in the rec room or practicing.

His ears pricked again as the two on the couch kept talking through mouthfuls of chips. Revolting. 

“What do you suppose the agents even do? I mean, the codes I kinda get, you gotta be subtle and sneaky like, but think about it. Do we even know what they do?”

“Dunno, don’t care.”

“Come on, man, at least _guess.”_

“If you want to know so badly, why don’t you train to be one.”

The frog’s face scrunches up in disgust. “And go through that fucking minefield? No way! I hear half the demons that try to go after agent training wind up _dead!”_

“Exactly. So why bother asking at all?”

“Ugh, you’re not listening. I mean, sure, the people who drop out of Pentious’s little boot camp don’t end up _double-dead_ , but still pretty fucking dead! And even when people ask them about it, they refuse to fucking spill! Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“What’s weird is that you think the Boss holding any of us to secrecy is weird.” He holds up a wing, which has a snake mark embedded into his wrist, trailing across his mass of feathers and leaving a dark streak amongst the otherwise pale-blue sheen. “I mean, we go talking about even this _base_ to anyone and we turn into goo. Why bother even asking questions when you can just shut your mouth and get a hefty fucking paycheck?” 

“I don’t get a fucking paycheck.”

“Yeah, because _you_ live here. You want money, go out on the West side and mark some bounties.”

Interesting, if a little bit disgusting in its mode of speech. The agents get special training, kept secret by Pentious and anyone involved, and the demons who aren’t living under Pentious’ roof actually do get paychecks. Hopefully. He takes a large gulp of his coffee, savoring the scalding feeling in the back of his throat. He wouldn’t mind going through special training if it meant climbing the ladder, but he had a feeling Pentious would rather have him prove his worth first. He’d look too arrogant asking for such a thing on his first week. Bounties on the other hand... He could look into that in the meantime.

Across the room, beyond the poker tables, was a door, one with a silver handle and a sign painted onto it that displayed a bathroom-sign-style stick figure with horns on their head holding a cigarette in their hand, a door that swung open, and Alastor’s nose couldn’t help but wrinkle a touch upon the bitter scent of smoke and tobacco reaching his nostrils. From within the door stood a tall, muscular woman, clearly lizard-like, with large, glittering scales lining her skin, a polished white, with large splotches of pink trailing over her scales, in a fashion that reminded him vaguely of the orange coloration on that of a gila monster. Her eyes were the same bright pink as her stripes, pupils ending in thin reptilian slits, and her tail was thick, ending in a round, fat point, hanging stiffly in the air, just barely not touching the floor. The top of her head was covered in thin, hair-like quills, and her snout was narrow, ending in a point, the butt of a cigar still clenched between large, vicious looking fangs that more resembled a shark than a mere lizard. Her outfit consisted of a navy blue tank-top, a pair of dull green pants with a dark beltbuckle, and black steel-toed combat boots. The most interesting thing about her seemed to be that there were also these strange mechanical prosthetics that seemed to be lining her arms, or perhaps even _were_ her arms, colored a deep, _deep_ blue hue, almost to the point that they were black, the hands ending in sharp, thick claws.

The woman in question, quick to drain the last few bits of the cigar still clenched between her teeth, lets the butt fall to her feet to crush it beneath a boot before finally letting the door behind her close, and her eyes seem to trail along the room before immediately locking onto Alastor’s own gaze. Her lips stretch into a grin, thin traces of smoke leaking between her teeth, and she slowly tilts her head up to blow what little of the smoke remained out of her lungs, and though there was some obvious coughing and irritated glares from the soldiers around her, there wasn’t any audible complaints. Slowly, the lizard walks toward Alastor, making a bee-line straight for the coffee machine, and just as she reaches him, she holds out her hand, palm upward, teeth still bared in that vicious grin. “So, you must be Alastor, huh?”

“That would be my name, yes.” He puts his coffee cup into his left hand and takes her own, offering a solid shake. The metal lining her knuckles is cold, almost sharp but not enough to cut with such a simple movement. A clear Australian accent filters through her voice, and a small bit of smoke still lingering on her breath spills into the space between them. Thankfully, with his tendency to frequent speakeasies, he isn’t fazed much by the smell. “You must be the one Pentious assigned me to.”

“Yup, that’s me. Call me Loralai. I’m what you’d call the leader of the team. The Boss told me you got a bit of trouble with keeping your finger off the trigger, so to speak, and I need to keep an eye on you.” She chuckles a touch. “So, you’re the one that eviscerated poor old Kevin? I’m pretty sure if I look close enough I can still see a bit of bone caught in your teeth.”

“I can assure you it’s not his bone.” He chuckles at the comment, though he inwardly seethes at the idea of being babysat. He pulls his hand back as soon as she releases him. “I didn’t get anywhere near his vertebrae, though with all the looks I’ve received, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what people are saying.”

“Well, no need to worry. I’m not as squeamish about all that shit like the others are. Honestly, I could give less of a shit about who’s throat you rip out, so long as they deserved it, and as far as I’m concerned, he _did_ deserve it.” She rolls her eyes and moves to grab a plastic cup to fill it up with water. “Anything you want to let me know right off the bat? The Boss went over some things before you came down here, but I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Hm.” He raises a brow, lips quirking as she doesn’t respond to his words. And at the idea of this Kevin individual perhaps not being the saint everyone else seems to be making him out to be. “I imagine he’s already told you I don’t like uninitiated contact, so the only other things to tell you immediately is that I love the saxophone and desperately want to learn how to tap dance.” He grins widely at her.

She smirks even as she moves to take a drink of her cup, draining it in one go before starting to refill it again. “Hm. The Boss did say you were also a big jokester, so, glad to see that was true.” She takes another sip before speaking. “Well, we got the whole day to do whatever the fuck we want. Ever seen the West side? We could give you a tour? Go after a few bounties?”

“I’ve been on the West side maybe... twenty years ago. A tour would be nice.” He drains the rest of his coffee. “I’ve only ever heard about the bounties in passing. You get money out of it?”

“Oh yeah. It’s how people who live here can earn their own cash flow, and how people who don’t can earn a little more on the side.” She takes another sip, her lips stretching into a grin, exposing her teeth. “Basically, the West side is constantly crawling with small-fries, you know? Stupid little piss-ant gangs and thugs that think they can just walk right into Pentious’s territory and set up shop? Well, the Boss offers us the chance to do his dirty work and take care of all the vermin for him, without him having to waste any precious resources or weapons on his own turf. We get word of where certain gangs are thanks to scouts, we go out, butcher them, trash their bunkards, and come back to the base with proof, like bloodied clothes or pictures or whatever, something along the lines that shows that we were there. The more signs of proof the better. Then, we simply turn in what we got, and boom! Extra cash to spend on whatever the fuck we want.”

“Sounds like easy money.” Personally, Alastor didn’t care much for money, but, as in life, it did add to comfort. Sometimes he enjoyed being able to buy the finer liquors at the bars. “I suppose that also explains why the West is much more... orderly than the East.” He rolls his eyes. “If I could never live in the East again, I’d be tempted to call that a blessing.”

“Ugh, yeah, East side _sucks.”_ She rolls her eyes. “Fucking _crawling_ with all sorts of nasty fucks. Especially Valentino’s goons. God, I hate those guys.” Her grimace then turns into a grin, though it notably takes on a more sadistic edge. “Lucky for me, then, considering any proof of bagging Valentino’s dickheads is automatically twice the bounty.”

“Oh, really?” His own sadistic grin spreads across his face. “That _is_ lucky. Valentino’s recently gotten onto my blacklist. Had half the mind to go out and kill some of his goons for the hell of it, but if there’s money involved....” He shrugs.

“Oh yeah? How come? What did they do to get on _your_ bad side? What, did they try to steal your teeth to make a necklace out of them?” She can’t help but chuckle at her own joke.

He laughs thinly. “Oh, they tried that twice, and then they shot an innocent girl in the head for acting nurse for me.”

Loralai’s face drops into a look of shock, and the grin falls from her face. “They did _what?”_

He nods, nothing much changing in his face. “Little dollface two years into Hell helping sinners off the street patch their injuries together. Barely more than three feet tall. Barely knows how to use magic. Shot her-” He taps her forehead, between the eyes. “-right in the noggin.”

Loralai’s eyes narrow, and her tail visibly lashes, draining her cup of the rest of it’s water before crushing it to a pulp. “You know the guy that did it? I’m assuming she ain’t double-dead either, considering you said she got shot.”

“No, no, she’s fine.” He tosses his cup in a nearby waste bin. “As for the goons? No names and no faces, but I’d recognize the voice that shot her. Must have been at least six people there at the time.”

“Hmm..” She crosses her arms at that. “Ever considered going after the bastard for some payback?”

“Oh, certainly. Top of my list, before this-” He waves at the room. “-happened.” His grin sharpens. “And it could be again, from what I’m hearing.”

Her grin immediately grows to match his own, eyes narrowing. “I’m not gonna fucking say no to you cutting your teeth on some Valentino dirtbag’s bones. Pretty sure Pentious wouldn’t give a fuck either, as long as you kill them, and kill them good. Hell, if this is what you need to help ease whatever has you wired to go fucking mental like you did with Kevin, then by all fucking means, let’s do it.”

He rolls his eyes again, but laughs cordially. "First of all, thank you for understanding. Second of all, what happened to Kevin was an accident partially set off by him grappling me when I wasn't expecting it. I usually don't react so violently to unwanted touch, but given that it was a combat scenario..." He waves a hand. "I got a little carried away."

“Right, right.” She gives him a little look like she wasn’t entirely buying it, but seems to let it go. “So, we agree that we’ll be going on a bit of headhunting? Try to sniff out some of Valentino’s goons while we go about the West to see if we can track down this nurse-killing jackass?”

"I certainly wouldn't mind the venture." He grins more lively, letting the matter lie. "If I know anything about how Valentino works, then it wouldn't surprise me if he's already disciplined the team for breaking the house rules, which means others will probably have heard about it by now."

“Heheh.” That gets Loralai to chuckle, a grin curling up on her snout. “Sounds perfect to me. I’m sure Jaz wouldn’t mind dishing out some payback either.” She glances over toward the elevator, before moving to walk towards it. “Come on, we might as well head up to Sector F now, see what’s keeping her. She has a tendency to get a touch distracted sometimes.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Not that it’s a good thing. Distraction could mean death in Hell. But this was also Sir Pentious’ minions he was talking about. He tilts his head at her as he follows. “Her name is Jazz? I happen to by quite a fan of the genre.”

Loralai’s shoulders shake a touch as she stifles a bit of a laugh. “Pfft, no, no. Jaz is just a nickname I give her. Her name is Jasmine, and she’s just about the prettiest damn demon I’ve ever seen down here.” She gives the button to call the elevator a press with her elbow, leaning against the wall, tail idly swishing as she waits for the door to open. “She’s also mute, just so you know.”

Alastor grins and chuckles at the comments. He may not be a fan of it, but he could tell a romance when it hit him in the face. Hopefully it wouldn’t get too awkward too quickly. He raises a brow. “Oh, really? I don’t know any sign language, but I’m sure I could learn. I know a few military signs, if that would help at all.”

“I think that would help with getting her to like you more.” She flashes a grin at that. “She’s got some psychic stuff in her noggin so it’s not like you need to use it. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it though.” There was the ding of the elevator and when it opens, they find it to be empty. Loralai is quick to press the button labeled “F” as she moves inside.

“Oh, a psychic? Rather rare find down here.” He lets his other brow raise. Pentious must have had a field day upon finding an honest psychic in Hell. They could be a precious resource, especially for risky tasks. “What kind of psychic is she? I’ve met a few who are more physical about things. Hold an object and see the past, that sorta thing. Anything like that?”

“Hehehe. Even better.” She taps a claw against the side of her head. “Mind control. Once she’s able to get inside your head, you’re basically a puppet in her hands.”

“Oh, wow. That’s impressive.” He nods, chuckling. “I can only imagine how helpful that can be at times.” Puppeteering someone would be useful in a variety of situations. As long as you aren’t the one being puppeteered. He didn’t like the idea of someone routing through his mind, especially given his past, and his morning occupation. He vaguely wonders if Pentious could tell he was keeping secrets from him.

“Oh, it’s amazingly helpful. The amount of times we busted some shady shit where a bomb was found or some asshole was trying to poison the water system is insane.” She chuckles at that, shaking her head. “Of course, that’s when we aren’t on shipping duty. That one is a bit more boring, on a good day.”

“Boring is never a good day in my view.” Alastor smirks a bit, and categorizes the information for later use. “I don’t mean to pry, but I take it you and Jasmine are... an item? I merely ask since it’s a bit odd to let couples onto the same team and all, at least in my experience.”

“Oh yeah, been dating for a good 10 years now.” She glances at him a touch. “The Boss doesn’t really see it as an issue, so we just became our own team. What kind of teams did you used to run around with?”

“Oh, ah...” He looks aside for a moment. “American military, mostly. I tend to work alone in Hell, so you could say Sir Pentious is the first ‘team’ I’ve aligned myself to.” 

“Mm. Not a bad first choice to be honest. Well, “first” may be a bit of a wrong word to use. After all, it’s not like you can just split.” She chuckles a bit at that. “I mean, you can, but then you’ll just end up as a puddle.”

Alastor chuckles, arms tucking behind his back. “I have no intention to back out from joining his cause. He’s practically the only demon down here worth following.”

“You can say that again.” She folds her arms at that, one leg crossing over the other as she leans against the wall. “And you have no idea what his big goal is, do you?”

“Hm. I have a few ideas, but it’s mostly conjecture at this point. I don’t like making guesses without ample evidence.” He glances at the elevator doors as a ding rings through the cabin, and they part on floor F. He steps out into the busy hall.

“Well, don’t go try asking any of us around here for answers, because I got news for you, pal. We don’t know what the Boss is planning either. None of us do. The only ones that might even know a bit about what he’s got cooking is his right-hand, and the agents he trains. And he trains them himself.” She steps out into the main lobby, glancing around for a moment, before her tail flicks, and she hums. “She’s down in the training halls. Come on.” She starts walking through the crowd, toward the massive doors that Pentious had lead him through the day before. 

Alastor follows, slightly behind and to her side, if only to give her tail some room to move without bumping it. He hums as he glances through the large windows again, hoping to see anything entertaining. He wouldn’t mind testing his abilities out once more. It’d be nice to have a place to experiment with his sigils as well. He’d have to ask if there were times when the rooms were mostly empty, or if he could “rent” them at all. Definitely something to think about, in the end.

It seemed that some rooms were empty, no longer in use, while others that had previously been empty the day before were now filled with demons, all going about their training. Loralai moves her head to the left, looking through one of the large glass windows, and she spots a figure amongst three others, before a grin grows over her face. “There she is.”

Alastor follows her gaze to see an average looking demon, perhaps a bit on the plumper side, with two tall horns jutting from her forehead. He could only see her from the back, and intermittently from between a group of sparring sinners, but she seems to be playing defense for another demon’s training. Her skin - scales? - are a midtone cerulean, patterned with diamonds of sky blue, and she wears a simple yet elegant dress closer to cyan color, with loose, off the shoulder sleeves. She spins as they watch her, a tail whipping up at the demon she’s fighting, and as she turns, Alastor sees that her face is completely blank. No lips, no eyes, no nose. Just a smooth surface. Her sparring partner hits the ground hard enough for them to hear the faint thud from outside the room.

“Hahah! That’s my girl!” Loralai bangs on the glass with a fist, and the resulting sound is so loud that all three demons actually stop dead to turn to look up towards them. Jasmine herself merely tilts her head and after Loralai gives a wave, she lifts her hand to wave back. Her face visibly turns to glance the two other demons, who seem to nod, before she begins to walk out of sight, and it wasn’t long before a door, next to the massive window, opens to reveal Jasmine stepping outside into the hall, the sound of hooves clicking against the tile as she does so. Loralai immediately moves to sweep her into a hug, her tail starting to wag as she lets out a laugh. “Hahah! Hey, Jaz, you silly blueberry! I was wondering what was taking you so long! Got caught up in training, huh?”

Jasmine merely hugs back, and nods. Loralai then proceeds to move back from the hug, practically beaming. “I got the new recruit right here. Wanna see him?” 

Another nod. Loralai’s eyes instantly begin to turn a light blue, the same sky blue as the markings on Jasmine’s shoulders, and after a moment, the lizard’s head turns to face Alastor, as does Jasmine’s own, in an eerie display of unison.

“Ah.” Alastor grins at them, glancing between both of their faces, and waves, unsure what precisely was going on, but giving it his best guess. “Hello there, dear madam!” He puts his hand out, beaming, and clasps her hand in both of his as it moves up to return the gesture. Her shoulders shake as he pumps her arm a tad rougher than a typical handshake. “I’ve heard plenty of good things about you - _only_ good things, to be sure - and it’s quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance. The name’s Alastor in case you don’t already know.” He lets go of her hand and takes a small step back for space. “Loralai tells me it may help if I learn some ASL in the upcoming days, and I’ll certainly take that up, no questions asked. Until then, the best I know are military codes for _run, duck,_ and _take cover,_ hahaha!” He maps out the codes with his hands and then clasps them in front of his chest and grins at her.

There was silence for a moment before Alastor feels a sudden pressure, ever so slightly, squeezing down against the sides of his head. Then, just like that, the pressure eases, and a voice is heard in his head. “ _Greetings, Alastor. It’s very nice to meet you. I hope Loralai wasn’t too rough when it came to introductions. And it’s nice to put a face to all the rumors that he people have been whispering about. I certainly can see how you went about tearing a man’s neck open, with those teeth.”_

“Oh, please, anyone can tear a man’s throat out if they put their mind to it.” He waves a hand as if the words were meant to be compliments. He tries his best to not show any of his discomfort at the physical presence of Jasmine in his mind. “Loralai’s been quite wonderful, actually. Not rough in the least.”

_“That’s good to hear. I do look forward to working with you in the future.”_

Within an instant, Loralai’s eyes flick back to normal, and she shakes her head a touch before grinning, chuckling a touch. “Ah, sorry about that. Jaz here was just borrowing my eyes for a second.”

“Ah, so that’s what that was.” He brings a hand to his chin. “I was wondering, but psychic manifestation really does explain quite a bit.” He nods his head toward Jasmine. “I look forward to working with you as well.”

Jasmine provides a soft nod, and Loralai is quick to sling her arm around her shoulders, her tail still idly wagging back and forth. “So, Al, got any areas around the West side that you’d like to see first? You know, before we go hunting down that little nurse killer that you’re itching to get your hands on?”

“Hmm.” He looks off to the side, raising a brow as he thinks. “I’ve been told there’s a few speakeasies in the area. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about them, would you?”

“Speakeasies? Ah, yeah, well, the Ebony Leaf is one, though I think that’s more of a cafe now. There’s also the Evening Sun, which is at the penthouse of an old condo complex. My personal favorite is the Roaring Gates. It’s this old fortress that was put up back in the beginning days of Hell, and the peeps on the West side went and turned it into a _massive_ bar and restaurant type place. Rosie’s been trying to get her hands on it for years, but it’s too deep into West for her to do it.”

“Oh really? Sounds like an interesting place.” He grins and rubs his chin. “Roaring Gates? The name does sound familiar. Did it get into the news a few years ago? Sounds like the kind of place to make headlines.”

“Oh yeah. Pretty sure it was named the largest speakeasy in Hell. And it’s got _everything._ Fancy drinks, good food, huge bands that play all kinds of songs, it’s great. Best part is, it’s actually pretty damn cheap; me and Jaz go there just about every other night.”

“And I hope they have _jazz_ music?” He snickers at his own joke. “It definitely wouldn’t be a speakeasy without jazz.”

 _“Indeed it does. So much so that I almost wish I was deaf as well.”_ Jasmine’s voice comes up again, ringing in his head almost like that of a bell.

Loralai lets out a chuckle at that, and gives her a soft, friendly slap on the shoulder. “Ah, quit it. You know you love that place.”

_“I also love being able to hear in my left ear. But I can’t quite do that when someone is blaring a tuba five feet away from the bar.”_

“Oh, but that’s the _best_ part of a speakeasy, dear!” Alastor laughs, waving a hand over his head while his other hovers over his chest. “Music shaking your bones until you can’t stay in your seat any longer. The great unifier.”

_“Something tells me you are a bit biased. I can’t imagine what it is.”_

Loralai suppresses a chuckle at that, glancing over toward Alastor with a grin. “So, I’m guessing you’d want to check that place out? We can head for it now or we can go for it later.”

“I wouldn’t mind going now. The killing people can always wait.” He tucks his arms behind his back. “Unless you have another recommendation?”

“Hmm..” Loralai tilts her head a touch at that. “Eh. I’ve been getting kinda hungry anyway. Why not. Jaz?” 

_“I do not mind. Though I do wish to know why exactly we are going to be hunting down a person who has killed a nurse.”_

“I’ll explain on the way, hun.” She glances towards Alastor yet again with a grin before moving past him, her and Jasmine holding hands. “Well, come on then, let’s go!”

•••

“And here we are,” Nora says, stopping outside a pair of windows stacked full of various kinds of books. “The west side library, again.” One of the windows looks glossier than the other, as if it had been replaced recently. The sign above was nothing more than a wooden placard with the image of an open book painted onto it. The building stands only a story tall, everything on one long floor. “I’m starting to think you have an obsession with books, Pentious.”

“I wonder whatever gave you that idea?” Pentious himself rolls his eyes ever so slightly as he slithers his way over to the front door, where an “OPEN” sign hung, moving to push it open, accompanied by the sound of a ringing bell. “Besides, we’re here on _actual_ business. You know that.” 

There was a front desk off to the side, a plain little office desk that was manned by a demon that looked remarkably similar to a porcupine, with bifocals resting daintily on her snout. She was currently reclining in her chair with a bag of chips and a bottle of soda sitting on the desk, but as Pentious slithers into view, she visibly startles, quickly moving to sit back up with a flush to her face and an increasingly nervous jitter to her movements. “O-Oh, S-Sir Pentious! I, Uh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were coming, or else I would’ve gotten the latest novels ready for you! I-I’m so terribly sorry! Really! Please don’t blow up my library!” She immediately cowers in her chair, arms held over her head while her quills proceed to skewer the cushions, causing fluff to leak out. 

Pentious himself, not even blinking at the sight, merely sighs to himself and shakes a dismissive hand in her direction, rolling his eyes yet again. “No, no, Cheetha, I’m not here for that today.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, not precisssssely. I’m here for another matter.” He glances back towards her. “I’m looking for a certain biography detailing the crimes of a “ _New Orleans Butcher.”_ Do you happen to know of any volumes like that?”

She slowly peeks out from beneath her arms, and spares a glance for Nora as the plague doctor squeezes into the room. "Oh, y-you're not here for... Right! Heh." She relaxes and fixes her glasses, then pulls her spines out of her chair and wheels toward him. She almost seems to reach into the overhang of the counter in front of her, sliding a compartment aside and starting to click at a keyboard hidden away there. "Biography... New Orleans... Butcher..." She hits a key and waits, fidgeting with her glasses again and smiling up at him. "Th-thank you again for setting up the computers in here. They're a lot easier to use than the card catalog system." She rolls her eyes. "I swear, Dennis keeps on mixing up the files, and- Oh! Finished loading." Cheetha leans in toward the screen, grabbing a pen and notepad. "Let's see... There's a few are 904 and 905, aaand... quite a few around 921 to 928. There's a few different authors, so I'll just... write them down for you...." She starts scribbling names onto the notepad under the numbers she had listed.

Pentious’s tail idly flicks, and he can’t help but grin a touch. “Good. Glad to see that you’re using the computers to their full effect, by the way. Try to let any of my men know if they start to malfunction; I’ll be sure to send sssomeone down to fix them.” There was a pause as he glances at the nearby soda bottle. “And _please_ do try to keep _drinks_ away from them in the future, Cheetha. I thought I told you about that.”

"Oh!" She straightens and hurriedly moves the soda bottle to the other end of the table, tightening the cap to make sure it was on right. "So sorry! I keep forgetting about that. Most people don't ask me about finding books, so I'm not used to... anyways." She returns to her note taking, clicking to another page on the screen and swiftly writing down a few more names and titles. "S-so, the first few on here will be, uh, collections of newspapers featuring the name _New Orleans Butcher_ and it looks like maybe some journalist and police reports, and the ones in the 920s will be biographies. Two of them are anthologies documenting a few different serial killers - I've marked them with X's - but the rest are specifically about this guy, um... Adam Walker?" Cheetha tears the page out and leans over to hand it to him.

“Adam Walker?” Nora leans in as Pentious takes the page, frowning slightly. “Where are you getting that name from?”

“Um, some of the titles have it listed, and the subject tagged for the biographies have them down as Adam Walker. The biographies section is labeled alphabetically based on the subject, so…” Cheetha waves at the hidden computer. “The system takes that into account.”

“Hm.” Nora nods and leans back, giving Pentious a look. “Very well.”  
  
The librarian glances between them, then clears her throat and continues, “Regardless of the author's name, the books should be near the end of the shelves by the W's. There might be a few in the B's for Butcher, but those would probably be ones written before his identity was, um, publicized."

Pentious takes a moment to glance at the page, looking it over before nodding, moving to hand the page over to Nora to inspect. “Thank you, Cheetha.” There was a slight pause before he glances at her again. “..Out of curiosity, _have_ there been any newer novels that have come in with my name? Biographies, specifically, anything of that sort?”

"Erm." She closes the compartment for the computer and pulls a binder out from beside it, flipping through a few pages. "It looks like... a few days ago, we got another shipment from Earth. We're still sorting through it, but there were a lot of biographies in it. We'll get on that immediately, Sir Pentious." She smiles back up at him.

“Hmm.” His tongue flickers out, and he turns away. “Very well. Thank you.” He starts to slither deeper into the building, eyes scanning the shelves, trying to look for the filing cabinets that would hold such things as newspaper clippings or reports; if he was going to do some proper research, he wanted to get all that he could obtain. He might even consider venturing further into the middle of the City to visit the Emporium, should everything in this library not prove to be entirely valuable.

Nora follows him at a short distance, looking over the odd shelf they pass before following after him. "She put a note on here that all the books should be toward the back, to the right of the card catalog. I don't remember seeing filing cabinets the last time we came here, though." She picks up a novel titled _Horace and Glumpsom's Mystic Adventures_ and quickly puts it back down. This place is always getting new books. She doesn't know how they do it. "Do you think they reorganized everything again?"

“Probably. With all the new books that come in from Earth, and with the influx of books being written by the dead authors down here, there certainly isn’t a shortage. And each and every new novel has to be integrated into the computer sssystem, then labeled and put on the shelves. Reorganization is probably the best way to go about it.” He glances around as he slithers closer to the back of the building, spotting a few cabinets that looked to be filed in accordance to decades (1920’s, 1930’s etc), and moves to slither over, pulling out the second top drawer to find it filled to be brim with file folders, labeled alphabetically. His tongue flickers out slightly in distaste, before plucking out the one labeled “B”, pausing for a moment before also grabbing the one labeled “N”.

"I'm going to start grabbing the biographies. I'll meet you at one of the tables." Nora glances at the page again. "A lot of books for only thirty years..." She walks off, disappearing into the stacks and scanning the shelves for the W's as earlier discussed.

The folders in Pentious' hands are thick, held closed by a flap tied to a plastic ring. They're almost more akin to the size of small briefcases than anything else, with ridges on the sides. Accordion folders? Something along those lines. A note is written on each that reads _'Some larger texts are omitted from this collection and held in the Private Studies Room. Please ask at the front desk for further instructions.'_

“Hmmm..” He moves to slither over to an unoccupied table, pushing aside the chair completely, opting instead to curl up his coils as he places both folders down. After a moment, he moves to undo the flap to file “B”, pushing open the folder, starting to idly glance through them. There are folders within the folder splitting each document by main subjects in a secondary alphabetical fashion (BA, BC., BE, etc.) and it doesn't take long for Pentious to find the BU section. Upon opening the section, he sees tabs within it with subject names, _Bud, Bug, Bun, Bunny, Bull_ and so on. There's too many pages for it to fit into such a small folder, but he doesn't pay much attention to it. Cheetha has always been a rather talented spatial manipulator. A shame, almost, that she only really used it for keeping stock of all the books.

His tongue flickers out again, and he’s quick to push the “B” labeled file to the side, and he taps his claws against the table for a moment, before he blinks, idly recalling something. His eyes flick back to the file cabinet, and after a moment, he moves to slither back over to it, rifling through the already open drawer to pull out the file labeled “R”. He sets it down next to the other file as he coils himself back up, pulling the one labeled “N” close and undoing the flap, opening it. “Let’s ssssee...”

He finds a much similar set up and skims through _NE_ until he comes across _New Orleans._ There's a whole entire _other_ folder in the section for _New Orleans Parades_ and then more subjects categorized by popularity. Cooking contests, criminal reports, police brutality, music festivals, laws and politics, housing reports, accidental deaths, sports teams, trade, fishing expenses. The file seems to go on and on and on, just like the other. His eyes narrow, and he slowly starts to skim through the section on criminal reports. Just to be thorough.

They seem to be ordered by date, starting with some drunken disorderly conduct on New Years (1920) and moving into petty theft, larceny, unlawful possession of alcohol, unlawful production of alcohol, and then a rather intriguing headline: _Vicious Murder Outside Jackson Square, Crucifixion of Gideon Walker._

A stack of six books hit the table beside him as Nora hovers over his shoulder. "There are a lot more books on Adam Walker on the shelves. He really must have made an impression. Found anything interesting yet?"

He glances up toward the books, blinking a touch, before his tongue flickers out ever so slightly, and he glances back toward the file. “Perhapssss...A murder report about a man by the name of... _Gideon_ Walker...” He pulls the file out of the folder, slowly, so as to not rip it.

"Adam Walker, Gideon Walker..." She sorts through some of the books, taking one with gilded red writing and moving to the other side of the table. "Too much of a coincidence, unless Walker was an average name in New Orleans. Alastor doesn't exactly look like an _Adam_ to me, but..." She flips her book open. "...none of us ever got to choose our names in life."

“Mm. I know that part all too well.” He glances down towards the file he held in his hands, finding it to be a newspaper clipping. His eyes narrow, spotting quite the gruesome picture. The background on any other day would have been picturesque. A French styled building with towering, pointed roofs embossed with church crosses, all behind a statue of a man on a horse with two of its legs in the air and his hat raised as if in greeting. Greenery surrounds the statue, a fine path made through trimmed grass and bushes. And the subject of the headline: an inverted cross stabbed into the ground with the corpse of a man nailed into it just as the Romans would. The black and white graininess of the photo makes it difficult to pick out details, and the police presence investigating the scene only makes matters worse, but it's clear blood had been pooling under the cross.

“...Hmm....Interesting...The man was pinned to a cross. Propped up and murdered in what looks to be the god damn town square. Whoever did this wanted it to be seen. And seen by everyone.”

"...I found a family portrait." Nora exhales softly and holds the book up to him. The page shows a woman with long hair braided down her back, a man with a thick mustache, and a younger man (maybe in his teens) beaming at the camera. Both of the parents have a hand on his shoulders, but neither are smiling as wide as him. Just in the background of the shot is the butt of a rifle, seemingly set aside in a hurry for the photo. "Summer of 1917. Apparently this is right before he went to war. The father's name is Gideon Walker. The mother's name is omitted for, quote _matters of respect to the Creole and Indigenous communities."_

Pentious can’t help but stare at that picture, stare at the boy within that picture, and something about the way that smile was framed felt almost eerily similar to the same permanent grin that Alastor himself wore. It practically would’ve been identical were it not for the fact that Alastor’s teeth had been changed to sharp points when he died. His eyes flick back down to the picture of the cross. “...That’s his father. Someone murdered his father.” He holds up the picture for her to see.

Nora sets the book down and studies the image, then shivers and shakes her head. "That's utterly gruesome. Is there anything in the article about who did it? What year is it?"

“Let me see...” He scans the clipping, then begins to read aloud. "Thursday, April 22nd, 1920. Early morning guests of the Jackson Square historic park were greeted with a horrific display in front of the Jackson statue. Eye witnesses stumbled onto what they describe as an 'inverted cross with a man nailed to it' and then ran for the nearest restaurant to use their phone to call police. One witness, Gregory Maurice, identified the deceased as Gideon Walker, 51, a local salesman and father of veteran Adam Walker, 21. His death comes nearly four months after his wife's death. Mrs. Walker died of influenza age 46. Police have informed Mr. Adam Walker of his father's death. Mr. Adam Walker was unavailable for comment."

That gets Pentious’s tail to flick, ever so slightly. “1920...2 years after the first World War ended....And it was an inverted cross?” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Either this murderer was trying to make a statement on being faithful to God, or they believed that myth of the upside-down cross being a sign of the Devil and were trying to cause mass panic.”

"Hmm...." Nora's glasses flash as she stay silent for a moment. "I hate to be that person, but isn't it odd that his father was murdered so soon after his mother's death? Did he ever tell you anything about his first kill?"

“...Yes, he did. He said it was his father. He described to me how he once sssslit a man’s throat in broad daylight because he was bored, but he never mentioned anything about hanging people via crucifixion. If anything, I assumed he merely killed people and then took their bodies away to eat them. Not... _that.”_

Nora exhales heavily and shakes her head. "If he's an emotional killer, and he says he's killed when he gets bored, we may want to keep a closer eye on him. The last thing we need is for him to do _that_ under our noses to someone higher up."

“Mmm...Perhapsss. If we do, I’d rather we be subtle about it. Something tells me he’d be looking out for that sort of thing.” He glances back toward the article, then begins to rifle through the file again, trying to see if he could find anything else that might give more insight to the crime, to any of the crimes that Alastor may have committed in the past. 

"I'm sure we can find some way of keeping tabs on him." Nora turns back to her book, going quiet for the moment.

Pentious finds three more articles on murders identical to the first, and several others with more information. The most impressive fact was the apparent tendency for the murderer (Alastor, he had to substitute) to carve sins and alleged crimes into the skin of his victims. _Pride, greed, abuse, molestation, corruption, sloth, neglect, racist, sexist,_ and so on. One of the victims included the then mayor of New Orleans, Kalvin Petterson. 

“My God, he somehow got the _mayor_ ?” That gets his hood to bristle a touch and he lifts up the clipping to Nora. “I know 1920 isn’t exactly the spectacle of technology or security, but I’d leasssst expect the mayor to have some kind of safety net. Guards, loaded guns, _ssssomething_. Especially in a place like New Orleans of all cities, with a ssssupposed killer on the loose.”

Nora looks up, blinking. "He killed the mayor of New Orleans? Hmm. A man in power usually doesn't fear the lower classes, but you have a point. This book says that Alastor was quite the local influencer, though. Average to a tee, charming to extremes. His radio shows were remarkably diverse, not only in coverage, but also guests and comedy sketches. He had the mayor on one of his shows, in..." She flips back a page and blinks. "A month after his mother's death, for a segment on disease prevention."

“Hmmm..” He glances back down at that particular file, glancing over the article for the mayor’s death, again reading aloud. "Mayor Petterson was found in his home on Saturday hung upside down and nailed to a wall by his family, who had heard nothing in the night. He was still alive and an ambulance was called, but he died from blood loss en route. Several bills remain unsigned in his unfortunate absence, including an ordinance on a city wide curfew while police continue their investigation." Pentious’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “..But no markings this time. No words on the stomach or chest.” He moves to place the rest of the crime articles in front of Nora on the table. “Are we positive this is him? Sure, he mentioned killing hisss father, and the man that was the father of this “Adam Walker” did show up dead, but the methods of killing that happened within this time frame are nothing like that of an actual cannibal. Alassstor described his kills as clean, precise, without stalking or drugging, but he also very visibly stated that he _ate_ the people he caught. This...This isn’t cannibalism. This feels more like a deranged Christian parading around their own twisted sense of jussstice.”

"Maybe he was running tests." Nora flips through a few pages of her book then looks at the articles, scanning over the pictures. "I don't know much about serial killers, but they do tend to play with police. Although, I will admit that it feels... off. I think the table of contents in here mentioned something about the Crucifixion Killings..." She checks, then nods and flips to the back of the book. " _While it is impossible to know for sure whether Adam Walker killed the four victims of the Crucifixion Killings, certain evidence does point to his involvement. His father as the first victim is the obvious note, but also the fact that Amelia Banks was a long time acquaintance of his from his days at Sunday School, as well as his vocalized dissatisfaction with Mayor Petterson in the wake of the Spanish Flu, are direct connections to three of the victims. The fourth holds no credible ties to him, but this alone does not absolve him. Note how the vast majority of his victims were complete strangers to him, varying across all classes, colors, and creeds therein. Also note the receding use of sinful and criminal notes left on the bodies of the Crucifixion Victims. The crime scenes became notably more environmentally spaced and less emotionally driven."_

Pentious listens to the narration of the book, listens to Nora’s words, and as he glances down toward the many gruesome pictures of the people who had been killed and strung up for all to see, he couldn’t help but admit to himself, privately, that such grand acts of sadism already seemed to fit the man’s dramatic persona. His tail thumps against the ground and his claws trill against the table, before he begins to rifle through what little was left of the criminal file, just to see if there were any official reports of documents still unseen. There are files upon files of missing person reports throughout the years following, but no reports of any major leads. It wasn't until 1923 and into 1924 that people started considering the disappearances inexplicably connected. The paranoia of a serial killer within the city both covered the reporting of missing people and, once the connection was stated out loud, amplified the existence of those missing people. There were rare occurrences where a body (rather, body parts) were found in wild animals or in the swamps or rivers, but otherwise, none of the victims were found. The folder has no cases past 1929. “Hmm...Take a look at these.” He slides them over to Nora before he moves to pick one of the 5 remaining books from the stack. He glances over the cover, a ghoulish display of a bloody cleaver with a blood red title: _The Devil in Disguise,_ before immediately putting it down with a huff. He never trusted those kinds of biographies; they always were the type to be extremely biased and twist facts just for the sake of the shock factor. Couldn’t trust them as far as he could throw them.

"Hmm..." She pulls them closer, peering at them with one lens. "Missing persons reports. I suppose that makes sense if he... kept the bodies. Strange. These are practically monthly. If he was killing from 1920 to 1933, all with the same pattern... That comes out to roughly..." She blanches. "156 victims."

“No wonder the world of the living gave him a name. And wrote so many books about him.” His claw idly traces the edges of one of the other books, this one seemed to be bound by a thin fabric, and his eyes narrow pensively. “...A killer who managed to claim the lives of roughly 150 people...And they never suspected a thing until he died...” He can’t help the grin that comes to his lips, and he has to hold back the chuckle that bubbles up within his chest. “Isn’t that just _thrilling_? Concerning, yes, but also very thrilling.”

"Oh, if it happened while I was alive? There would have been torches and pitchforks and absolute chaos." She shakes her head. "I find it perhaps a touch more concerning than thrilling, but... yes, I get what you mean. How did he _do_ it? Why?"

“I don’t know. After all, he’s not here to answer, is he?” He rests his chin in his hand, still lightly scratching at the fabric of one of the books with a talon. “I don’t think we’d ever get the answer to that question unless we asked him, and I don’t plan to do that. Best not let him know of what we know. That way, if he does become a problem, we can use that knowledge to trip him up. I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that, but it’s a precaution I’m willing to have in place.”

"He does seem used to having everything under control..." Nora shuffles the papers back into order. "I hope he doesn't react badly at having that control thwarted, or at least the mirage of it. From what I understand, some cultures eat snake as a delicacy."

That gets him to huff and roll his eyes, casting a quick glare in her direction. “And I’m pretty sure every culture has a tendency to eat _birds_ too.”

"Which I have been keeping in mind for many years." She chuckles, returning to her book. "All I'm asking is that you keep in mind that Alastor is a master manipulator, and now he's in Hell with impeccable magic. I doubt he even told us the full extent of his powers."

“Tch. You’re making him sound as if he could be an Overlord. Need I remind you that he apparently was caught and beaten within an inch of his life by little more than Valentino’s thugs, according to the girl that saved him?” His hood bristles a touch, accompanied by the sound of a rattlesnake.

"Even an Overlord can be toppled by thugs, Sir Pentious." She taps her beak, leaning her head in one hand. "And I've told you about his magic. If he knows what he's doing, and he can manage to do _that_ on a whim.... We don't know what his boundaries are. _If_ he has any boundaries at all. And serial killers love playing it normal, apparently. Look at his house." She turns the book toward him, displaying an average, small family home. Two floors, but more than likely less than four rooms a floor. The forest sits ominously in the background, while a white picket fence and mailbox sit stationed in the front.

“We’re also talking about a man who hung his own father on a _cross_ in the middle of the most popular city in Louisiana.” He raises a brow. “Sssserial killers also love stirring the pot and causing drama and chaos wherever they go. That’s why they play with the press and the police when the media catches on to what they’re doing. Even if he _is_ trying to ssssomehow cook up some awful scheme under my nose, don’t you’d think I’d be able to tell what’s going on?”

"Maybe. But he knows that you know that he's a serial killer. If he's planning something that he doesn't want you to know, he'll keep that in mind. Well, if I were him, I would." She exhales. "I don't know what he'd do, though."

“Hence why we keep our mouths shut and _wait_ . We don’t know what Alassstor will do, what he will do, what he might do. We don’t know, and therefore we can’t plan. That’s why we need to wait, and watch, and be _careful_.” He steeples his claws in front of him, tail idly lashing. “I’d rather lie low and watch and know for a fact as to how he thinks rather than take a risk and wind up making a mistake.”

"It does sound like a bad idea to... wind up on his bad side..." She flips a page, cringing at a rendition of a crime scene photo from one of the retrieved body parts of the victims. "This may be something sudden, but... Do you think Niffty is safe with him?"

“Hmm...” He goes quiet for a moment. “..The fact that he hasn’t killed her already, or simply ran off to abandon her is strange, at the very least...” His tail flicks back and forth. “You said that she lives with him in the house within Rosie’s district, yes?”

"Yes, one of the more expensive ones. Given his previous condition, I imagine he only managed to get it through some favor or another."

“Hmm.” His hood twitches a touch. “...When I took control of the girl’s body to speak to him, he had asked if she was aware or would be able to recall the conversation. He doesn’t want her to know of his killings. So, at the very leasssst, he could be wanting to keep her safe out of ignorance. Never let her realize who he is.”

"It's possible." She goes quiet for a moment. "If no one told me and I didn't see him perform those tests, I don't know if I would believe him capable of _this._ This is Hell, yes, but..."

He raises a brow at that. “...Are you _ssscared_ of him, Nora?”

Nora blinks, then gives him a stern look. "I kill angels in my pass time, Pentious. He doesn't threaten me a bit. I'm merely worried about what he's planning. We still don't even know why he took Niffty's place. He's an entirely unknown variable, and you know how I am about variables."

“Hmm.” His gaze loses some of the incredulity to it, and he nods. “Indeed I do. You puzzle over how to solve them for over five weeks straight without rest and then wind up accidentally sleepwalking off the ship when you finally crash.”

"I did that _once_ , excuse me, mister solders over his fingers in his sleep." She huffs, though a smirk leaks onto her mask. "You have no room to talk."

“Just like how _you_ have no room to talk. Last time I checked, you’re the one who wound up so sleep deprived that you tried squeezing magic out of a _rock_ with your own bare hands.”

"Um, sorry, but that _worked_." She leans back, holding in a laugh. "You tried stopping me, and then the whole thing blew up in my face."

“You were squeezing a rock with the rune “ _explode_ ” etched into it.”

"And the magic _was_ coming out of it. You made me pulverize it."

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure, just like how I _made you_ decide to swallow a handful of coffee grounds because you refused to eat breakfast when you were trying to analyze an angel feather.”

"You _handed me_ the coffee grounds and said 'Eat this.'" She laughs. "What did you expect?"

“To _get up and make some actual coffee?_ ” His hood bristles at that, and he folds his arms in a huff. “I swear, working with you sometimes was an absolute _nightmare.”_

"Oh, should I remind you of everything you've gotten up to at three o'clock in the morning?" She blinks at him. "Remember that one time you nearly drank acid?"

He inhales at that, his eyes closing for a moment and when they open, his hood snaps up. “ _You put the acid in the god damn fridge._ I was running on my tenth cup of coffee that day. Why was a beaker of acid in the fridge, Nora? Why was it in the fridge?”

"It was in the lab fridge, where we store _lab samples_ of _untested and dangerous chemicals,_ Pentious." Nora leans toward him over the table. "That's why it was in the fridge."

His eyes narrow at that, his hat gains a bit of a scowl on its face and he points a claw at her beak. “Need I remind you of that time you somehow _accidentally_ gave _life_ to the eggs I was going to make for breakfast?”

"That was a happy mistake." She chuckles as she talks, backhanding his hand out of her face. "Those eggs are wonderful, happy little minions, and they _love_ both us _and_ life, which is an incredible feat. But-" She holds up her own finger. "Do you know what _wasn't_ such a happy mistake?"

His hood bristles and his tongue flickers out with a hiss, teeth bared in a scowl. “I hate those miserable little creaturessss and the only reason I keep them around is because they follow orders and possess no qualms about murder.” His expression relaxes to that of vaguely annoyed, and he waves a hand in the air. “But go on.”

Nora stares at him, about to remark on his ridiculous hatred of her precious little egg experiments, and then shakes her head, leans back, and says one word, "Gunpowder."

Pentious goes quiet, unnervingly quiet, and after a moment, his tongue flickers as he turns his head away, arms folded, almost haughtily. “...That was an accident and you know it.”

“You blew up my house, Pentious.” 

“....On accident.”

“With gunpowder?”

“I bought you a new one.”

“After you blew up the first one.”

“Shut your sauce box.” 

There was a lengthy pause in which nothing else was said, the two of them merely sitting there at the table, Nora with her eyes hidden behind a mask of cold indifference, the crocodile grin she usually wore now wiped away entirely, replaced by a chilling gaze that carried only empty light where pupils should stare back. Pentious, too, was staring, his eyes narrowed, his lips curled into a scowl that displayed sharp, pointed fangs, his claws clutched together almost politely in front of him, while his hood was spread wide, exposing the eyes underneath, the tips rattling almost ominously, his tail slowly swishing back and forth, back and forth. If there were anyone else in the library (which there wasn’t), they surely would’ve felt the sudden urge to immediately run for the front door at the sight of that splayed hood, and even Cheetha was starting to feel that same urge, hesitantly peeking out from behind a shelf to watch said display, limbs trembling, swearing that she was about to see a poor old bird get reduced to little more than dust.

Five seconds passed. Ten. Pentious’s tail ceases it’s movements, and within an instant, the both of them suddenly grow massive, toothy smiles, ducking their heads as they both start to laugh, shoulders shaking with obvious mirth. Cheetha has to stumble in an effort to not fall over at the sound of the Overlord’s hellish laugh, and even then, she feels her quills flare out and one of them sink into what she desperately hopes isn’t the spine of a hard cover.

“Dear lord, you will never outlive that one, I swear.” Nora snickers, half covering her beak in a lame attempt at hiding her smirk.

“Oh, get back to reading your booksss. We have a long day ahead of us.” Pentious pushes the stack toward her, shoulders still shaking.

“Sure, sure.” She takes the book on the top of the stack. _“Saucebox.”_

“Oh, _hush.”_ His tail rattles, but he can’t hide his toothy grin.

•••

“Oh, this place is absolutely lovely! I can’t believe I haven’t been here before.” Alastor turns around in his seat, elbows leaning back on the bar as he gleefully takes in his surroundings. The Roaring Gates is bustling with activity, a jazz band setting up in the corner at the far end of the bar (upon Jasmine’s request, they had taken the seats as far away as possible) and dozens upon dozens of sinners lounging in lavish couches and velvet chairs. Golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling purposefully unfinished with imitation gold leaf patterns, and the dull crimson light from outside pours in through large windows accompanied by classy, golden curtains. Wood panels and rugs line the floor, separating each little sitting area, and a checkerboard pattern closes off the bar, itself put together with finely carved wood and well laid glass. Shelf upon shelf behind the bar is stocked with all sorts of alcohol of all sorts of flavors and colors. The building was massive for a speakeasy, but it seemed like that was the point. It wasn’t imitating physical authenticity as much as it was imitating the experience. A few of the customers were wearing flapper dresses and dancing in the limited space offered to them. Alastor sighs lightly and swirls his glass of whiskey before turning to Loralai and Jasmine. “I think I would have died on the spot if I laid eyes on something like this back in the day.”

Loralai herself was reclining against the bar’s counter right next to him, a stack of at least three plates in front of her, the top plate holding what looks to be a massive portion of chicken tenders with a side of fries, holding a giant mug of beer in her hand, to which she lets out a bit of a laugh. “Heh, I know the feeling. I _wish_ I could’ve died in a place like this. I dunno if ghosts exist but if being one meant I could hang around for eternity, I’d take that deal in a heartbeat.”

 _“I do not recall if ghosts are actually real, actually. Then again, I did not think that Hell existed either, so it seems entirely up for grabs.”_ Jasmine herself was sitting to Loralai, her own plate sitting in front of her with a rather large burger, also with fries. She also held a glass of soda in her hand, having abstained from alcohol for the night. Alastor can’t recall her actually picking any of the food up to eat, but it seemed that every time he happened to glance at her plate, there always was a little bit more of her meal missing, as if there actually was a bite taken out of it.

“Haha! Really? I’m not even Christian and I thought Hell existed.” Alastor could feel his grin widen, the more relaxed and honest version of his typical, menacing look coating his face. He snags a few of Loralai’s fries and chomps them down before looking out on the conglomeration of people around them. “Ghosts definitely exist. They’re just a little shy is all. I think I’ve seen a few down here, actually! Hahah, oh what was it? Shelly? Sheldon? Can’t remember the name.”

“Hey! If you want fries so badly, buy your own!” Loralai moves to push her collection of plates away from him, though her expression tells him that she isn’t actually mad, still wearing a bit of a grin, her tail giving a slight lash. 

Jasmine herself tilts her head a touch. _“I merely thought Hell was nothing more than a social construct to convince people that living one way and one way only was a way to achieve happiness. I never believed in what the Christians said.”_

“Aw, how rude.” Alastor smirks at Loralai, then leans back a bit to look over at Jasmine. “Social construct, huh? I suppose you’re not entirely wrong about that one. Most people don’t even read the Bible right, as far as I’m concerned.” He turns his head down to the other side of the bar as he hears a few notes play through a trumpet. “Looks like the band’s getting ready to play another one. I think I’ve heard them at another bar before. Quite talented.”

“Bet you ten Knights you can’t guess the next song.” Loralai smirks right back, eyes narrowing. “The Boss told me you were from the city of jazz. Consider me curious as to how much swing you really know.”

_“Loralai, please don’t.”_

“Whaaaat?” She glances back towards her. “I’m not _gambling.”_

_“You turn everything into gambling.”_

“Not _everything._ You’re being _dramatic.”_

_“You bet an entire King on if you could benchpress a bookshelf.”_

She smirks at that, leaning towards her until her snout was practically an inch from Jasmine’s face. “Yeah, I did. And what happened?”

There was a slight pause. _“You lost and we had to make at least 30 bounties a day in order to get enough money to pay the rent.”_

Loralai’s grin immediately deflates and she groans dramatically as she pulls away. “Huuun! You were supposed to say that I won!”

“Hahaha!” Alastor tilts his head back as he listens to them bicker, then takes a sip of his whiskey and sets it on the table beside him. “Oh, I do love a good adventurous demon from time to time. You might want to listen to Jasmine on this one, though. I am _excellent_ at guessing songs, _and_ I know the band. How about we bet ten fries instead?”

Loralai’s eyes narrow, and she sets her mug down to fold her arms. “How’s this? You win, I give you my fries. I win, you’re paying the bill.”

He laughs again and smirks. “It’s a deal!” Alastor shifts and bends his neck toward the band. “Okay, so, we have Sylvester, Mackie, Beatrice, aaand.... Hank. Vocals, piano, brass, percussion. No basses, so that rules out a few. Syl likes to keep things modern, but a lot of the ones coming in this year are a bit more laid back and it’s still early in the day, so....” He waves his hand a few times, then snaps his fingers. “Aha! Yes, siree, they’re gonna play Bobby Darin’s ‘La Mer,’ also known as ‘Beyond the Sea.’ 1959.”

“Tch. Sure. Unless some jackass decides to slip them a few coins.” Loralai takes a sip of her beer. 

_“I’m just glad you aren’t tossing away your money, dear.”_

“I still don’t see how it’s a big deal. I get money practically every day with the bounties, not to mention the Boss’s paychecks.” 

_“It's not the money, it’s how much you like to fling it.”_

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t “fling” your money too.” She leans over to poke at the dress Jasmine is wearing. “You bought this at the Emporium last week. And we both know she ain’t cheap.”

“You know, I thought that looked familiar.” Alastor turns his head to them. “I’ve always gotten my clothes from the Emporium. Once you get her enchantments, there’s simply no turning back. Anti-stain? Self-repairing? _Definitely_ worth the cost. You know, certain stores in the Emporium don’t charge extra for custom tailoring. Dinnie’s, Bob and Bop’s. I cannot recommend enough.”

Jasmine’s tail flicks ever so slightly, and she almost seems to look a touch more smug before, despite not having a face. _“Nice to know that you agree. I personally find her Emporium to be rather grand. It’s amazing as to how many services her stores provide.”_

Loralai herself rolls her eyes at that. “Eh. I’m not interested in any of that stuff. Except for the food. I will admit, that stuff is good. But it’s expensive as fuck and it’s a long god damn walk from the house to the Center, so we only do that for big nights.”

“I’d recommend _The Germain,_ but their portion sizes are a bit small. Anyone serving Italian dinners, though?” He gives a chef’s kiss. “You’ll spend so much money, but the food keeps on coming and you’ll leave with dozens of boxes of takeout if you ask _very_ politely. If you check out the shops right outside the Emporium, though, they have better prices.”

“Jeez, you sure do seem to know a lot about food places.” Loralai chuckles at that, raising a brow. “How many times do you even _go_ to the Emporium?”

“Ooh...” He makes a face. “I used to go a lot more, back in the forties. Practically lived there, haha! Now, it’s maybe... once or twice every four or five months.” He finishes off his whiskey. “I actually know Rosie rather well.”

The band suddenly erupts into noise, a piano trilling and trumpets blaring, and Alastor lets out a triumphant “Ha!” before the first words are even sung. “ _Somewhere... beyond the sea...”_

Alastor holds his hand out. “Plate me.”

“God fucking dammit.” Soon, the plate, filled with her fries, is placed in his hand. Jasmine’s shoulders shake as if she’s giggling.

“Thank you!” He plucks a fry and chomps it with a winning smile, chuckling. “Never underestimate the power of lifelong hobbies.”

“Still suckering hapless customers out of their well earned appetizers, I see?” The bartender, a tall, lanky demon with ram’s horns and green and white spots walks over and pours him another half glass of whiskey.

“Is that Jordan I hear?” Alastor spins around in his seat to face the bar again, all smiles, as usual, and he flings a hand into the air (thankfully not the one holding the fries) as he sees her. “Oh, it is! Wow, it must’ve been a decade since I’ve seen you last. New job?”

“Yeah, just transferred a few weeks ago.” She eyes the plate as she tosses a sprig of mint into the glass. “Mind putting that on the counter, love?”

“Of course, dear.” He chuckles, setting the plate down for her.

Both Jasmine and Loralai glance at the two of them, the former tilting her head while the latter furrows her brow, though a grin comes to her face. “And who is this, Al? Damn, you got contacts everywhere or what?”

“He’s a frequent drinker at almost _every_ establishment in Hell.” She snickers. “Never bet paying the check on him. He’ll drink three bottles of tequila and stay standing.”

“I could do backflips with that!” Alastor chuckles. “This is Jordan. You used to work at the.... Painted Street?”

“Yup. Painted Street.” She nods, taking a rag and brushing some crumbs from the counter. “And who are you two? It’s rare Alastor’s out with friends.”

“Oh, they’re more business hazards than anything.” He wrinkles his nose for a moment and snickers.

Loralai glances at Alastor with a bit of a huff. “Keep talking and I’ll make sure _you’re_ lifting the shipping crates tomorrow.” She pauses to extend a hand toward Jordan for a handshake. “Name’s Loralai. You might’ve seen me around here with my girl, Jasmine.” She points to Jasmine with a thumb, who silently waves. “We frequent this place a lot.”

“Yeah, you two look rather familiar, I’ll admit.” Jordan shakes her hand, then continues clearing the counter. “So you all are _work_ friends? You don’t _seem_ like radio fanatics....”

“I got a second job.” Alastor grins at her, propping his head on one hand and sipping his whiskey with his other. “Shipping and handling.”

“But you love your radio.” Her eyes narrow and she leans closer. “And you’re not wearing your suit jacket _or_ your monocle. Something’s gotten into you.”

“I've not given up my radio. I handle it in the morning.” He waves a hand. “I’m merely trying new things for once.”

“New things. You. Right.”

 _“We brought him here to see the Roaring Gates.”_ Jasmine’s words come in through all of their heads. _“He’s never seen it before, and his shift doesn’t officially start until tomorrow.”_

“Well, it’s nice to see that he’s getting out of the house and meeting new people.” Jordan grins widely, then glances over her shoulder toward the other side of the bar. “Ugh. Duty calls. Be right back.” She darts off for another customer.

Alastor takes another sip of his whiskey. “Running into all sorts of people today.”

“You’re telling _me._ First you’re telling us you know _Rosie_ of all the demons, and now you just happened to run into an old bartender pal of yours? You must have a lot of friends down here.” Loralai drains the rest of her beer mug before taking a bite of one of her chicken tenders.

“I _have_ been down here for thirty years.” He chuckles, knowing the time to really be nothing in comparison to other demons. “Running into Rosie was a complete accident, and I’m just lucky she happens to enjoy the same music and humor as I do.”

“Well, I’d say you’re about one of the luckiest demons alive.” She shrugs a bit at that, grinning softly. “After all, _ten_ years alone is considered a miracle of any regular demon. Those fucking Purges are no joke.”

“Yeah, I suppose the angels aren’t very nice.” He takes a longer sip from his glass. “Best to find a nice hole to sleep the night away. Maybe even the next night if you want to be extra careful.”

“Heh. Something tells me you slept in quite a few of them. Me and Jasmine just hunker down with the Boss and the rest of his men. Either that or stay home with guns at the ready in case any of them decide to start breaking and entering.”

“Ah, he’s nice about that, is he? I suppose it makes sense. Rumor has it angels tend to single out Overlords. Something about magic signatures.”

“Certainly wouldn’t be surprised. God knows they try to kill as many of us as possible. Literally.” She chuckles a touch at that.

_“Yes, they are quite horrid beasts. No wonder The Whip Wraith herself is under the Boss’s command as well; many demons would kill to gain the services of the doctor who brings death to the holy slayers.”_

“You know, I thought she’d be taller.” He shows off his teeth in a wider smile.

“Heheh.” Loralai shakes her head at that. “She doesn’t need to be tall to kick your ass, man.”

“Oh, definitely. I’ve been knocked over by people half my size.” He laughs. “It’s merely the stories you hear. Everyone makes her out to be this hulking, terrifying demon. Which she is. But I expected more.”

“And what exactly _were_ you expecting?“

“Hmm....” He taps his lip. “More whip, less wraith.”

“I mean, I’m sure those hooks would _feel_ like a whip if she hit you hard enough with it, if she doesn’t fucking rip your head off or skewer you in the neck.” Loralai takes another bite of her food, shrugging a touch. “If you ask me, part of the reason she’s the Boss’s righthand is because there’s no one else who could take that place.”

Alastor merely shrugs, knocking back the rest of his whiskey.

Jordan pops back over to them, taking Jasmine’s cup when offered and refilling it with cola. “Sorry about that. Sturges is trying to break Al’s record before the clock strikes nine, apparently.”

He smirks at that. “Best of luck to him.”

“Jeez. Must be some record. What’s the farthest you’ve ever gone when it comes to booze? Like, how much can you drink before you actually start to topple?” Loralai glances at him, with a raised brow.

“Oh, I start blacking out after... four vodka sized bottles? Depends, but that’s the one I remember.”

“I was bartending that night.” Jordan shakes her head. “It was like nothing really hit him until the fourth bottle. Whatever happened to him during his fall, it gave him Hell’s sturdiest liver.”

“I didn’t even die that night.” He grins smugly.

“You danced with everyone and threw a chair out the front window and got banned from the establishment.”

“A good night out on the town then.”

“Jesus. Ok, remind me to never try to drink you under the table. I’d lose by a long shot.”

 _“Alcohol tends to have more adverse effects on my psychic abilities, so I try to stay away from it entirely.”_ Jasmine herself pipes up at that. _“I do not know what could happen should I become inebriated. I’d rather avoid it as much as I can._ ”

“Really?” Alastor looks over to her. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it makes sense, I suppose.”

“We get a few psychic regulars around here, yeah.” Jordan glances over, then nods and starts pulling bottles from below the bar. “I hear someone in the brewing industry is trying to find a way around that, but we haven’t seen anything. And, uh, don’t look, but there’s a couple guys and gals in the corner across the room that have been watching you all for a while now.”

_“Ah, yes. Those ones. I have been borrowing the eyes of one of them for some time now. I’ve been wondering why they are all staring at us.”_

Loralai smirks to herself, chuckling as she pops the last chicken tender into her mouth, cracking her knuckles in a fist. “Jordan, right? Do you mind if we start a tussle? Or would you rather we take this outside?”

“We’re used to bar fights, but if you could limit the property damage, I think my boss would like you a tad bit more.”

Alastor chuckles at that. “Aw. This really is a speakeasy.”

Loralai glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Hey, you’re the newbie, so you get to pick how we deal with these fuckers. Want to catch them by surprise or some shit, or just walk over and punch their teeth in? If you want, you could just shout “bar fight” at the top of your lungs and watch this place throw a shit fit.”

“Hmm....” He picks at the last of his fries, considering the options. “As much as I love a good bar fight, I’d hate to get blood on all the wood and furniture. I think we finish our food, pay, walk out, and let them follow us.”

“They don’t look like they’re very patient,” Jordan mutters.

“Then we let them approach and it’ll be a good, ol’ fashioned bar fight.”

“Alrighty, whatever you say. Did you happen to bring a weapon with you? You don’t look like you have a gun.”

“Sharp claws, fangs, and plenty of bottles of alcohol.” His grin stretches across his face.

Jordan shakes her head and reaches for a half empty bottle of rum. “It’s going on your tab.”

“Jaz?”

“ _Ready when you are. Though letting go of the one I’m seeing through will probably alert them to our presence.”_

“Did you memorize the room?”

_“Of course.”_

“Then you got nothing to worry about. I got your back.”

“I’ll be on the other side of the bar.” Jordan walks off, shaking a mixer as she does so.

Alastor tilts the bottle she’s handed him and reads the label. “Relax, everyone. We have time. You’ll only work yourselves up if you start prepping now.”

 _“I suppose that’s fair. It’s just that we don’t know what exactly we’ve done to warrant such hostility. Unless, it is not us, but you, rather?”_ Jasmine tilts her head, presumably referring to him.

“Could be. I’m rather identifiable these days.” He rolls his eyes a touch. “What do they look like? Anything identifiable with their clothes?”

_“...Pink and white overcoats, I believe. Red bow ties.”_

“Valentino’s men.” He unscrews the cap of the bottle and takes a sniff of the alcohol. “They don’t particularly like me.”

“Heheh. Perfect. Just the guys we were looking for.” Loralai smirks to herself. “I think the bounty for Valentino men got raised up some since last week. About....80 Counts each last time I checked. You think we can manage to split it between all three of us?”

“80 each?” Alastor nods and screws the cap back on. “Sounds reasonable enough. How many of them are there?”

_“At least five in all. One of them looks quite...formidable. Very tall. Some kind of...pig?”_

“Hmm...” His brows furrow. Something about that rings a bell in his mind, but he isn’t quite sure what for. There are plenty of pigs in Hell. “Any hounds? I don’t like hounds.”

_“Yes, I believe so. It’s nose is twitching at us.”_

“Guh.” A small amount of static leaks out of his voice at that. There’s always a hound. Why is there always a hound? “Maybe I’ll save the bottle for me.”

“Want me to break his teeth for you?” Loralai curls a hand into a fist, the metal chassis lining her arms curling smoothly along with the movements of her fingers. “I go for the hound, you go make bacon out of the pig?”

“That sounds absolutely perfect to me.” He chuckles and taps her glass with his bottle. “Ready to cash out then?”

“I sure am. Jaz?”

“ _Ready._ ”

“Alrighty. Sounds good to me.”

Nothing notable changes, but after a moment, Jasmine does reach out to grip Loralai’s hand, giving it a tender squeeze.

Alastor stands, alcohol in one hand and the other scrounging through a pocket for money. Jasmine starts sorting through a purse to pay for their share of the meal, and he raises a hand. “Oh, no, let me pay. You two were lovely company.”

“Found some new friends, have you?”

Alastor turns, seeing the group of five walking up to them. The hellhound’s nose is still twitching, the pig scowls down at him, and the other three demons hover in the background menacingly. One of them almost looks like a turtle. “Do I know you?” He drops two kings in his used glass.

“You’re gonn-”

“I _do,_ don’t I?” He laughs and takes a step closer. “You used to do knife fighting, didn’t you? Always won the matches, haha!” He throws his arm out, offering the bottle to the pig, and fakes a wobble. “Here. Have it. I always loved watching your matches.”

“What the...?”

“Is he _actually_ fucking drunk right now?”

“I’m not drunk.” He leans back on the bar. “That’s just, you know, eighty-proof alcohol. Good stuff. Read the label.”

The pig raises the bottle, confused. “I don’t-”

The wolf grabs his arm. “No, you idiot-”

Alastor snaps his fingers and the bottle _explodes_ into flames, shrapnel flying into both of their face and bouncing off lighting fixtures and into the crowd.

Auspiciously, none of the shrapnel flies toward him, Jasmine, or Loralai. Flames spread over the pig’s face and the wolf’s fur, and his grin sharpens as his pupils thin into pinprick slivers. Instantly, both pig and wolf demon are screaming and clutching their faces in agony, to which Loralai takes the opportunity to reel back and slam her fist directly into the wolf’s burning snout, causing him to go literally flying back, toppling over like a lump ragdoll, bits of teeth and blood spraying from his jaw as he collapses against and actually knocks over an empty, if not lavishly expensive chair. Almost all the activity in the room stops dead, and all eyes turn to watch. Loralai’s grin is downright maniac as she moves to grab another empty bottle, smashing it on the counter to create a makeshift weapon, and raises both fists into the air. _“BAR FIGHT!”_

The demon who had been sitting next to them mutters, “I fucking hate this place,” and then promptly ducks as someone else in the bar throws a beer glass at the carefully constructed shelves of alcohol. Loralai jumps into the fray, tackling one of the other demons to the ground, and when Alastor spares a glance, he doesn’t even see Jasmine anymore. He shrugs, still leaning against the counter, and returns his gaze to the pig as a wild swing comes his way. One of his hands darts up and grabs the fist inches from making contact with his face.

“Oops. Looks like you missed.” He chuckles darkly.

The pig, his face horribly burned from the flames, bleeding from the shards of glass, let’s out a horrid squeal that sounded like it would come from the depths of a slaughterhouse before he moves to swing again with his other fist. At this point, the room around them dissolves into full blown chaos; bottles being broken, chairs being picked up and hurled through the air, fists and teeth and claws flying everywhere in a mad raving of nonsensical fighting. Loralai was vaguely seen right in the middle, punching the hound’s face bloody while also sinking her teeth into the arm of another demon, that was trying to put her into a chokehold. There was the bang of a gun and at least another row of alcohol behind the bar explodes into a shower of booze and broken glass.

Alastor drops to the floor, yanking the fist in his grasp with him, and the pig hurtles forward with his own punch and smacks face first into the bar, stumbling back and falling onto the ground in a disoriented pile. Alastor glances to the side and winks at the demon that had taken cover, then darts out into the chaos toward the demon choking Loralai. He hums, leaning over the pile of screaming demons, and grabs the back of the demon’s head, pushes it down, and drives his nails into their spine. They gasp and go limp, but their eyes continue darting around in shock and pain. Loralai, blinking when she feels the arms trying to wrap around her throat going limp, tears her teeth out of the man’s arm, spitting out chunks before flashing a bloody grin towards Alastor, only for her eyes to go wide. Within an instant, she has an arm wrapped around Alastor’s shoulders, and they both hit the deck as the turtle swings a bar stool in a wide, clumsy arc, only to wind up smashing it into the back of the head of some kind of horse, where the cushioned part snaps off entirely and the horse collapses to the ground like a sack of potatoes. There was a crash as someone gets sent flying through a window. Alastor blinks at the sudden change in location, the bright lights and colors of the bar spinning around him before his back hits a sofa, shortly followed by Loralai. “Oof!” She hits the ground beside him, and he nods to her before scrambling upright, hurriedly pulling her up with him. “Thanks for that.”

“Yeah, no problem.” She glances upwards, only to see the snarling face of the bloodied wolf starting to stand, and gives Alastor a little nudge with her elbow. “Remember to leave one of them alive.” She immediately rolls back up onto her feet, grabbing a knife that apparently got stabbed into the couch, and moves to lunge back into the fray of demons. Yet another gunshot goes off and this time it seems to crash into the chandelier, causing glass to start raining down in showers.

“Just another day in Hell.” Alastor rolls his sleeves up, stalking across the room and trying to sort out random citizen from Valentino mobster. The pig was still laying on the ground, as was the demon whose vertebrae he had sliced. A rabbit comes at him with a steak knife and he grabs her wrist and crushes it in his hand, then lets go of her and continues wading through the crowd.

There was a sudden flash of white and pink, and after a moment of searching through the blood and bodies, he manages to see the source. A man, depicted as a rather ugly and crude fish, almost like that of a piranha, wielding what looks to be a vicious looking knife, trying his damndest to wade through the crowd. The moment their eyes lock, the man scowls, his broken and grizzled fangs peeking out from his lips and within an instant, his fins flare, and he holds up the knife for Alastor to see. “You just really know to cause chaos, don’t you? It’s really starting to fucking grind my gears.”

Alastor tilts his head and raises a hand to his ears. "I'm sorry. What was that? I can't hear you over the sound of escalating property damage." He smirks, tilting his head forward, a red glow emanating from his silhouette. "Mind coming a little closer, dear?"

“Like Hell I will.” The fish’s eyes narrow, and something about his gaze just seems to burn with venomous hatred. “I know what happens if I let those fucking teeth get close, you son of a bitch. I’m not letting that happen again.” 

Within an instant, Alastor feels something cold press to the back of his head, and he just barely recognizes the outline of a shotgun’s barrel against his skin before his surroundings suddenly turn into a massive blur, his ears ringing so loud that all sound drowns out as he feels his body topple to the floor. One of his hands scrambles against the floor for purchase, glass digging into his palms, and the other moves to the side of his head, not feeling any sticky wetness of blood. The floor seems to tilt under him regardless, and he blinks a few times before shaking his head, trying to push the ringing out of his ears. The noises subside by an increment and he raises his head to see the fish moving toward him with a chair over his head.

"Playtime's over." His fingers snap, and he can't quite make out the noise, but a pillar of fire erupts around the fish and distant screams meet his ears, so he smiles nonetheless.

The chandelier above them, practically in pieces and dangling by a thread, finally falls down to the floor, and judging by the spray of blood, someone was unlucky enough to be underneath it when it did. Alastor sees the flash of the shotgun go off again and again, the massive turtle demon trying to shoot at Jasmine, who was dodging the shots with ease, causing the walls to be riddled with bullets and splinters of wood to go flying through the air. Jasmine suddenly leaps into the air, spinning as she does, and one one last monumental spin, she swings her tail down and _cracks_ the turtle over the head. An axe gets thrown and skewered into a wall, and Loralai is seen lifting a man above her head before slamming him down through a table.

Alastor hums, stretching his arms over his head and walking toward the fish, who was flailing around and trying to put out the flames. He chuckles, pushing him aside and toward the middle of the room (and chaos) before moving forward. The pig was starting to get up. How wonderful. He grabs a knife that had been stabbed into the bar counter and taps the tip to his finger. Sharp, but not as sharp as he'd like. No one in Hell keeps their instruments sharp these days. He pauses for a moment, ever so slightly, eyes narrowing, idly spinning the knife in his hand, humming to himself. What should he go for when it comes to the kill? Should he split the pig down the middle? Stab him in the throat? He doesn’t exactly _feel_ like getting blood all over his vest (again), but at the same time, he hasn’t had the pleasure of properly butchering someone with a blade in quite the while now. All of his kills had been clean, precise, and though while he admits that the last couple days have been a bit of a blood bath, he couldn’t help but want to savor this one, just a touch. After all, what else good is a pig for except to slaughter?

The pig demon stumbles to his feet, running a hand over his face and wincing as the throbbing split on his forehead weeps more blood. He doesn’t look all too steady. Hopefully he was already concussed. That could make matters easier. Alastor’s own hearing was still partially shot, and on his right side too... He hums and walks up to the demon.

“You know, you _do_ look familiar.” He rubs his chin. “I can’t for the life of me remember where from, though.”

The pig, visibly disoriented, turns his head towards him, and he wobbles for a moment, his voice a touch hoarse as his eyes blink at him, having a bit of a glaze to them. “W...Wha..?”

“I must have seen you around once or twice. You weren’t with the piranha when I killed him and all the others.” He raises a brow and taps the blunt edge of the knife against his chin, and his teeth make the weapon seem smaller than it really is. The bar seemed to be emptying by now. Good. “Hm. You wouldn’t happen to be closer to dear old Val, would you?” He steps closer, easily within range for a swing, but he doesn’t seem to care.

The pig, blinking harder, seems to wobble again, before he seems to remember what he’s doing, and his face contorts into that of rage, the light coming back into his gaze. “You _son of a bitch!”_ He moves to pick up a bar stool, raising it over his head before bringing it down in a massive swing. Alastor chuckles and trots to the side, letting the stool slam into the ground and the pig stumble just a few inches closer to him. He puts a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye as, for just a moment, they were level with each other. He swipes a leg under him and yanks his shoulder with his claws and drives his knife into his lower back at the same time, and lets go to watch the mammoth demon hit the deck. There was quite the blood splatter, as well as a very audible _crunch_ that came from the knife _plunging_ itself into the pig’s torso, and the man’s entire face convulses before blood violently bubbles up between his lips, the very tip of the knife actually peeking out from his stomach, having apparently stabbed him all the way through, blood starting to soak into his clothes.

“Ohoho. I think I miscalculated the length of this thing. Sorry about that. But you should be fine for what I need.” Alastor kneels on top of his shoulder and grabs his ear, pulling his head back. “Your boss and I don’t particularly see eye to eye on quite a few things, namely how he lets his little grunts go about killing people.” He could feel his eyes glow. “Luckily enough, you have at least two liters of blood to go through before passing out. Maybe even three if we’re lucky enough.” He laughs at that. “Well, if _I’m_ lucky enough. I can only imagine you won’t be having as much fun as I will.”

“Gggh...” The pig, his teeth gritted, his body shaking with pain, slowly turns his head towards him, staring for a moment with visible anger, with pain, before spitting a glob of bloodied spit right into Alastor’s face. _“Fuck off.”_

Alastor doesn’t even blink, merely shaking his head and tutting. “I don’t think I’ve been clear enough. One of your men killed a _nurse_ protecting her _patient._ Took a whole chopper squad and practically leveled her house to the ground.” He twists his ear, continuing to twist and twist and twist, slowly, until it seems he’s only going to stop once he gets information or tears the ear off himself. “That breaks the nonaggression pacts with the mafias, I hope you know. But I don’t care about Valentino.” He leans in close, that staticky, toothy smile all the pig could see. “I care about the _man who shot the girl.”_

The pig visibly seizes up at the pain, at the agony of his ear being slowly twisted, and even then, the pain from the knife buried in his flesh only causes him to twitch even harder, and he hisses in between his teeth, jaw quivering as he fights to keep himself from screaming. “I...I aint tellin’ ya...I ain’t telling you _shit.”_

“Oh, really? Is Valentino protecting someone as weak willed as that?” He chuckles and brings his other hand to the pig’s skull, preparing to rip at the ear. “Maybe I’ll have to widen my scope and include him. I’ll leave a note on your corpse telling him, _Hello.”_

The pig’s fists feebly clench, his teeth grit even harder, and he begins to start to squirm, to thrash, trying to lift his arm up to throw a punch, to knock Alastor off of him, fighting back a scream from the sensation of the knife slicing into his insides. 

“Oh, you’re making this so much harder on yourself, Maurice.” He exhales and _yanks,_ half the ear coming away, and _yanks_ again, tossing the ear off in the direction of the demon whose vertebrae he’s severed. He grabs the pig’s wrist and pins it to the floor, his other hand’s claws unsheathing. “You know, I used to be a butcher. I worked with pigs quite a bit. You have the scapular spine-” He prods near his shoulder. “-the triceps brachii-” He prods his upper arm. “-and the _biceps brachii._ ” His claws dig into the muscle, easily tearing them apart. The arm trying to grab him goes limp, twitching. “Isn’t that just _fun?”_

Maurice can’t help but let out a scream when he feels his ear slowly _rip_ away from his skin, feels blood start to gush down his skin, and all he can do is wriggle there in pain as he feels the muscles of his arm get sliced to ribbons, the knife cutting against his flesh and causing the sensation of blood sticking to his skin to get even worse. He tries to fight back the tears that spring to his eyes, tries to keep his teeth clenched together, but can’t help the tremble that comes to his voice when he speaks again. “You sick _fuck.”_

A shadow fell over them both, and Loralai’s voice is heard. “ _Jesus._ Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

“Oh, Lorry!” Alastor looks up at her, that eerie grin of his still plastered across his face despite the blood splattered over him. “Do you want to join in? There may be another one, over that way if you want to start your own. Severed vertebrae. Probably can’t feel anything below the shoulders, but, well, that’s what the beauty of eyes are meant for, isn’t it?”

Loralai can’t help but smirk at that, and she cracks her knuckles at that, tail giving a bit of a lash. “Yeah, I can probably do something with that.” She glances over the pig, crossing her arms before pressing a boot down on his other hand. “Guessing this guy ain’t talking?”

“Only cursing at me so far.” He reaches over to slice through the muscles of the other arm. “If I don’t get anything from them, I guess I’m going to have to assume that Valentino is protecting someone who usually would be through to the dogs by now. Why would that be, hm?” He leans over him and pulls his head up again. “Valentino stooping low enough to kill innocent bystanders now? Gang wars not enough for him? Has to get his kicks off killing little girls now?”

Loralai crouches down next to him, her eyes narrowing, a sort of venomous glare entering her gaze. “Honestly, the fact that your friend of yours _only_ got shot is a surprise in and of itself. They could’ve done _so much worse,_ couldn’t they?” A growl rumbles in her throat. “Makes me sick.”

Alastor’s nose wrinkles and his claws sink into the man’s scalp at the thought. “Eugh. I hate thinking of it, but Valentino _is_ running Hell’s largest porn industry, isn’t he, Maurice? Is your name Maurice? For some reason that’s what’s coming to mind for me. Apologies if it isn’t.”

Maurice is visibly quivering now, shaking, beneath Alastor’s claws, and his composure seems to start to break, his face twisted with pain, with fear, breathing starting to grow heavy, pained, his voice starting to tremble. “..You’re wrong...W..We never woulda touched her...You’re sick if you think Rex woulda did that...”

“And why should I think any differently? The man is already breaking company policy. It could have been that he simply didn’t do anything because there were witnesses.” Alastor digs his claws in deeper, starting to feel the grating of the skull beneath the flesh. _Rex._ He’d keep that name in mind.

“ _Ggh-!”_ Maurice’s face seizes up even more from the pain. “He-He doesn’t work for Valentino! H-He works for Vox!” 

Loralai blinks at that, and her face turns into that of shock. “...Vox? What the fuck are Vox’s gang doing with Valentino’s lackeys?”

Alastor’s eyes narrow. “Television goes hand in hand with organized crime down here, doesn’t it? Easy way to advertise your trade if you have the head of entertainment in your pocket.” He eases his grip on him just a touch. “My friend _had_ been saying Vox was patrolling her neighborhoods. If he’s starting to get in on the gang business....” Alastor exhales and lets go of Maurice. “He doesn’t even know what he’s doing.”

“Hmmm...” Loralai glances down at Maurice, then over her shoulder. The bar was a complete and utter wreck to say the least; blood was splattered on the walls and floor, there were at least several dead, unmoving bodies that laid limp on the floor or slumped over the wrecked furniture, some windows were little more than broken shards of glass and the walls were riddled with what looked like bullet holes. Jasmine was standing over the body of the paralyzed demon, her face staring down intently at the unmoving man, who was completely, disturbingly silent. She glances back down toward Maurice and gives his other ear a tug. “Fess up and tell us where this Rex guy is, and we’ll just go and snap your neck. Trust me. It’s way better than what _this_ guy has in store for you.”

Maurice visibly winces, shaking, and his voice trembles. “He...He’s on the East side, I swear. On...On Brook Road.”

Alastor pouts at Loralai. “No fun. That was all too easy.” He looks back down at him and raises a brow. “You’re not just lying to us in the hopes that we’ll leave, are you? I don’t like liars.” He pokes his cheek with a finger, no claw to be seen.

Maurice shakes his head as best he can, blood still gushing out from the hole where his ear would be. “N-No! I’m not lying, I swear!”

“ _Where_ in Brook Road? We need a specific address.” Loralai glances over his limp arm, before glancing at Alastor. “Can he feel anything in his arms or did you paralyze those?”

“Oh, he can feel plenty.” He grins at her. “He just can’t move much.” He taps the back of his head. “So, how about that address? Do you know anything about his house? Tell us everything you know.”

Loralai herself grins at that, and she chuckles as she grabs Maurice’s arm with both hands and lifts it up, adjusting her pose so that one knee is firmly planted below his elbow. “ _Good.”_

“Wait, _wait-!”_

With a sickening _crunch,_ Loralai slams his arm down onto her knee, bending it at such a severe angle that the fractured bone actually comes rupturing out of his skin. Maurice’s back arches upwards as his legs frantically kick across the ground, his body writhing weakly in pain. _“GAAAAH!”_

“Where’s the address?” Loralai’s grin is downright vicious, pushing his arm down even further, causing the bone to start pushing it’s way further out the wound. “Where is it?”

“232! _232 on Brook Road!”_

“232 on Brook Road?” Alastor hums, then nods. “Alrighty then. I guess the fun ends here, then. So sad, but maybe we’ll meet again some day.” He wraps his arms around his head, giving another pout to Loralai.

“God, don’t-”

Alastor pulls his arms and the demon’s neck snaps loudly. “I’m sorry. God declined your call.”

“Pfft.” That gets Loralai to laugh as she drops the man’s arm, moving to stand and offering a hand to help Alastor up as well. “Really? That’s the best you came up with? That’s so dumb.” She fights back another chortle, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Hey, you’re laughing! Sometimes simple is better.” He takes her hand, standing and brushing off his vest before surveying the room around him. Glass everywhere, a window broken, a few fires still burning, bodies everywhere. He nods. “Well, this has been an incredibly fun afternoon. It’s been a while since I actually went and caused some havoc.” He stretches his hands over his head, bones popping as he does so.

“I can tell. You seem to be really god damn good at it. Color me impressed.” She smirks at him, then glances over her shoulder to survey the carnage. Jasmine was standing there amongst the bodies holding what looks to be another knife, which was bloodied quite a bit, though her clothes were remarkably unstained. The body that she had been crouched over earlier is now completely dead, his body caked in blood from a slit throat. Loralai chuckles at the sight and moves over to press a kiss to Jasmine’s cheek before wrapping an arm around her shoulders to pull her into a side hug as she turns to face Alastor again. “So, we gonna go pay this Rex bastard a visit? I’d say I could hijack a car and go for a drive but the traffic down here is always a bitch to deal with.”

“Hmm.” He glances at them, then over at the door. Pentious _did_ order him to get to know his teammates for the day. And he _has_ gotten to know them, but.... Well, maybe he’d understand that this is a more personal vendetta for him. “In all honesty, I was planning on dealing with him alone. We shouldn’t forget to grab our bounties either.” He looks down at Maurice. “Do you take limbs, or heads, eyeballs...?”

That gets Loralai to blink, and she chuckles a touch. “I mean, if _you_ want to, go ahead. I ain’t gonna stop you.”

Jasmine tilts her head at that. _“The way to properly turn in a Valentino bounty is to take their overcoats. However, I do not think there are any rules against you bringing in the body parts. Just don’t expect people to be casual about it. If anything, it might make people even more scared than they already are.”_

“Oh!” Alastor jumps a little in place, both ears flicking, though the left notably more than the right. “I suppose that makes some sense.” Boring. Really boring. He was hoping he could scout around for a bonesaw again. Plenty of kitchens have them in Hell. “Well, maybe I’ll leave that idea on the back-burner for now. Although Maurice _is_ one of the higher ups...” He taps his body with his shoe. “To think he came all this way for me. Hm.”

“Really?” Loralai glances at his body, scoffing. “ _That_ is one of the best Valentino has to offer? He was blubbering like a baby.”

“Eh. He’s a security agent, or something along those lines. Doesn’t do much. Just stands and looks pretty.” He shrugs. “It’ll be a notable kill, though. Maybe I’ll come by again and bury the bodies. It’s always fun hearing about it later on, haha!”

“Speaking of which, maybe we should get out of here so we don’t have to end up paying for all of this. The manager of this place is a real bitch when it comes to that sort of thing; if a bar fight breaks out, he foots the bill to whoever is left standing.”

“Good point.” Alastor kneels down to start peeling Maurice’s coat away from his body. “Let’s grab these things and run. Anyone asks, I’ll pay.”

Loralai lets out a laugh at that, moving to start looting through the bodies surrounding her. “Now you’re speaking my language, pal. I think I’m gonna like having you around, if it means you attract parties like _this.”_ She gestures with a hand that is currently clutching someone’s wallet.

Alastor laughs, smirking up at her. “Every day, my dear! Every day.”

•••

“Let’s see what we have today...” Pentious can’t help but mumble under his breath as he slithers up to a very familiar looking shelf, his eyes scanning over the same row of books with the same titles that he’s seen at least dozens of times over the years. He was positive that if it weren’t for him loaning the library the money it needed to stay afloat, the business would have shut down or burnt to the ground ages ago. No doubt there weren’t a lot of demons down here who actually appreciated novels for anything other than lighting them on fire and using the pages as kindling. Pathetic. His eyes scan over the titles of the books until he gets to a certain spot, in the center of the shelf, and moves to take off his hat, turning it so that it was facing him, holding out a hand towards it expectantly. After a moment of silence, the mouth on the hat slowly opens, and out comes a long slithering tongue, with a folded up piece of paper resting daintily on the tip, to which Pentious is quick to grab it, the surface of the paper remarkably dry and not soaked in spit. The tongue quickly retreats back into the hat’s mouth, and Pentious places it back on his head, giving the top of the hat a soft pat with a hand, to which it purrs softly, feeling it rumble against his scalp.

Pentious slowly moves to unfold the paper, displaying a long line of book titles written in fancy cursive, and he moves to rest a claw against the first book he sees on that particular section of the shelf, muttering to himself, quietly. “ _Tyrant of Terror..._ ” He glances at the paper, then back to the book. “Check.” He moves his claw to the book right next to it. “ _Evils of the Sky..._ ” Another glance to the paper. “Check.”

He keeps on scanning the books, over and over, as many of them as he can find, and with every title, he finds it staring right back at him within the contours of that paper. He feels a well of idle frustration bubble in his stomach as he starts the near the end of the “S” section of the biography section, and finds that the last book with the label “SIR” to be yet another book he’s already written down. He lets out a sigh, his hood twitching in irritation, a hiss close to rumbling within his throat, and he slowly folds up the paper, making sure to fold it extra tight before holding it back up to his hat, feeling it’s tongue wrap around the paper to drag it back within his maw. He lets his arms cross, scowling down at the books in front of him, his tail slowly lashing. “ _Disappointing.”_

Cheetha had mentioned something about a new shipment they were sorting through. Maybe he could slip into the employee’s only area of the library to check himself. Heavens know he has the best idea of what the covers would look like, and the titles. Probably even a few of the author names. He peeks around the corner of a bookshelf and toward the main desk, spying the diligent little porcupine nose deep in a massive book. He huffs as he spots that infernal soda bottle next to the text, but slithers off to the far corner in the hopes of getting a look at those new books.

It isn’t much longer afterward that the door to the library chimes open, a soft voice piping up from behind a scroll of sorts. “No, Razzle, we talked about this. Books first, lunch after. _Maybe_ we’ll go to the Emporium, but you have to wait first. Alright?”

Cheetha blinks at the sound of the bell ringing, not exactly expecting anyone else to actually step foot within the library, and when she lowers her book to see who it was that had walked in, she catches sight of bright red cheek marks and feels her heart practically stop within her chest, the book tumbling from her fingers and hitting the ground with a loud thud, narrowly missing the soda bottle on the way down. She immediately leaps to her feet to greet the _actual_ princess of Hell, her quills already starting to flare up against her back, thankfully not so much that they actually began to shoot out, her voice squeaking a bit higher than she normally would’ve preferred it to. “ _H-Hi!”_ She immediately clears her throat with a grimace and flashes an apologetic grin, adjusting her glasses. “Er, I mean, uh, hello there, Miss Magne. W-Welcome to the East - I mean, _West_ Side Library! I, uh, I’m Cheetha! What can I help you with?”

Charlie, pausing to lower the scroll, actually moves to smile, holding out her hand for a handshake. “Oh, uh, hi there! It’s nice to meet you! I really like the look of this place! It’s so cute and tiny!”

“Oh, thank you! It’s, um, we’ve been doing a little remodeling here and there.” Cheetha takes her hand almost hesitantly and gives her a shake. “I, um, I can’t really believe you’re here, heheh. Oh, but I’m glad you’re here! Definitely. Best library in Hell.” She chuckles awkwardly and adjusts her glasses, feeling her face flush with her nerves. “Is there, ah, anything I can help you find, Miss Magne?”

“Ah, Yes, actually.” She nods, though her vibrant smile starts to turn to a bit more of an awkward or almost nervous grin. “But, well, the thing I’m looking for is...I don’t really know _what_ I’m looking for?” She bites her lip for a moment before shaking her head. “No, well, I know _what_ I’m looking for. I’m looking for some kind of biography, but I don’t know who the biography is about. All I know is that I’m looking for those kinds of books about a man who died in the 30’s, lived in New Orleans, and was a serial killer.”

“Ah, serial killers.” Cheetha laughs softly, and it comes out nervous, again. “Seems to be the theme of the day. It doesn’t sound like you have a lot to go off of, buuut....” She pulls out a binder from under her desk and starts flipping through the back of it. “There are a few places you can look. The history and biography section is the 900s. Biographies are the 920s. North American history is.... 917. And you can always look at 904 and 905 for crime reports, since he was a serial killer....” She undoes the binding for a moment and takes out a thick paper full of numbers and subject headers and even a few instructions. She takes a pencil out and circles the numbers she had mentioned. “All of these should be around the same area. It’s, um, the far right corner. And! The, um, crime reports should be in the filing cabinet. Same area, just, um, has little things like newspaper clippings and such.” Cheetha hands the paper to her.

Charlie can’t help but blink at the sight of the binder, watching silently as Cheetha goes about circling the numbers, and she feels herself giggle a touch. “Wow. That’s quite a lot to keep track of. How do you even go about organizing this much stuff in the first place?” She lets her head turn to glance around what she could see of the library’s shelves. “I’m surprised this library doesn’t have more people in it.”

“Oh, heh. I’ve practically got everything memorized at this point.” She grins lightly, relaxing a little at the comments and questions. “At first it’s like a bunch of random numbers, and then it all makes sense! Heheh. I’ve been working here almost twenty years.” She turns back to the binder and flips through a few pages. “Not a lot of people in the area are ultra keen on books, but we get a few regulars. Lots of writers these days too. More people come at night and stuff.”

“Well, either way, color me impressed!” Charlie flashes another grin before glancing down at the paper she was given. “So, you said there were newspaper files? Where exactly are those?”

“Oh, uh, all the way back and to the right.” She leans over the desk a little and points in the direction. “Can’t miss it.”

“Oh, right! Thank you! Come on, you two, let’s get started.” She starts to walk and Cheetha can just barely catch the sight of two smaller figures following her, each of them coming up to her waist.

Cheetha takes a deep breath as they move into the shelves, and shakily sits down. “I... do not get paid enough for this.”

Charlie bites her lip slightly as she slowly makes her way toward the back of the building, walking past the empty shelves, idly hearing the sound of a ticking clock somewhere on the wall, the smell of old paper and dried ink remarkably fresh, despite the age of some books, some looking old and worn while others look remarkably new. She spots the filing cabinet in a corner, a dull green hue lined with brass labeling plaques and handles, and she slowly glances them over until she finds the one labeled 1930. Upon pulling it open, she catches sight of a massive array of folders, each labeled alphabetically, and she frowns at them, softly. “Hmmm...” Hesitantly, she slowly pulls out files for C, S, and after a moment of thought, N.

“Okay, there should be something in these files for us to go on.” Charlie exhales slightly, looking over the relative thinness of each of them, then glances around for somewhere to sit. “Dad’s library has lots of tables, so...” She peeks around the edge of the last bookshelf and almost jumps at a hulking, cloaked figure stooped over a table and utterly surrounded by dozens of books. The figure looked remarkably like that some kind of crow, at least in terms of the mask they wore, a bright white mask that looked almost akin to bone, and the white glow that came from within the eye sockets was eerie, to say the least. But there was something about the figure that also seemed strangely familiar, and after a moment of staring, she slowly steps out from behind the shelf, feeling shock slowly begin to trickle down her spine. “... _Nora?”_

She jumps, head snapping up toward Charlie and feathers ruffling at the startle, and her eyes widen. “Oh, uh!” She blinks a few times, slowly settling, and carefully closes the book she’s reading. “Princess Charlie. What a surprise!” She chuckles. “How long has it been? Two centuries?”

“It… honestly feels like 5!” She can’t help but laugh a bit through her words as she moves over to the table. “Oh my god, no offense, but I honestly thought you would’ve been dead by now! The last time I saw you was, God, like, 1760? 1770?”

“Oh, it must’ve been somewhere around then, but I am one of the hardier ones. It’ll take more than a few Purges to take me out.” Her shoulders shake, and she turns in her seat, but doesn’t stand, lest the stacks of books were to fall. “You were so small back then. Practically half the height you are now! Wow. Time really does fly, doesn’t it?”

“It definitely does. Jeez. To think I was barely getting into my teen years when I first saw you. I remember you being super huge and kind of scary. Do you still have those hook things?” She holds out her hand in the air like Nora would when brandishing her weapons, wrist out and fingers curled. “Those things that really impressed my dad?”

“Pff. You bet I do.” Nora snickers, a grin crawling over her beak. “I may be getting old, but I haven’t lost my touch. Though I probably shouldn’t use them near so many books. Cheetha would have my head. She doesn’t look like much, but she can be fierce when needed.” She tilts her head. “Speaking of your father... he _knows_ you’re out here, right? I was under the impression you were under castle arrest for the time being.”

“Nope!” She feels a grin come back to her face, and she chuckles, holding the files to her chest now. “I managed to convince him to let me out into the city! As far as I’m concerned, when I’m out here, I’m a free demon!” 

She feels a tug at her pant leg, glancing downwards at Razzle, who had his head tilted in confusion, and she blinks, frowning, before recognition fills her eyes and she gasps. “Oh, right! Don’t worry, she’s a friend!” She reaches down to pet the top of Razzle’s head, glancing back up at Nora. “This is Razzle and Dazzle. You didn’t meet them back then because, well, Dad didn’t want me taking them with me when we went out in public, in case anything happened. They’re my best buds.” 

Razzle himself turns to give an elegant bow towards Nora, eyes closed, while Dazzle merely waves, grinning.

Nora turns a little more in her seat, giving a small “Huh” before bowing her head back in return. “It’s a pleasure meeting the two of you Guards, I take it? Lucifer’s never been the type to trust the masses, from what I gather.”

“Kiiind of?” Charlie’s grin grows a bit lopsided at that, almost unsure. “Not really _guards_ , more like traveling buddies. They’re more like best friends than anything. They used to be my dolls before Dad brought them to life so I wouldn’t be lonely in the Castle.” She playfully gives the top of Dazzle’s head a scratch, to which he silently huffs and flails his arms to try and knock her hand away, leaving Charlie to laugh. “Sorry, you’re just so cute.”

Dazzle’s cheeks flush and he pointedly turns his head away with a huff, complete with a hoof stomp. 

“Yes, you are.”

Another stomp. Razzle gives him a cheeky grin and nods. Dazzle blows a raspberry at him.

Nora chuckles at the little display, shaking her head gently. “They definitely have quite the personality. Your father’s magic is unmatched, as usual.” She looks back to Charlie. “So you’re finally out of the Castle, and you decided to come visit the West Side Library? Interesting choice. Looking into anything specific?”

“Oh, uh, yes, actually.” She glances toward one of the chairs that had been pushed off to the side. “Mind if I sit?”

“Sure thing, sure thing.” Nora turns back to the table, shuffling books off to the other side to give her more room. “Plenty of space here, I swear.”

“Heheh. It’s fine, don’t worry. What are you doing with all these books anyway?” She moves to sit, placing the files in her lap. Razzle and Dazzle both move to clamber onto their own chairs, Razzle moving to pick up a book to examine it while Dazzle idly starts to skim through another one.

“We’ve come across someone who has... extraordinary talents, and we’re merely doing some background research to make sure he’s told us everything. He seems like the type to hold secrets.”

“We?” Charlie tilts her head. “I don’t recall you working with anyone the last time we met. Who’s we?”

_“Ehem.”_

She looks up and blinks at a towering snake demon wearing a top hat that seems to be frowning at her. Sir Pentious. To think just the other day she was listening to her father wax poetic about the man who had eviscerated most of the northeast quadrant, and now here he was, in a library, with a stack of books carried in his arms. She chuckles nervously before standing, hands clasped in front of her. Formalities, a voice in the back of her head reminds her. “Sir Pentious! I didn’t see you there. I hope you’ve been having a good day?”

Pentious doesn’t answer for a moment, his tongue moving to flicker out of his mouth to wiggle in the air, his expression kept tense, almost wary, before he slowly moves to place the books down on top of the already massive pile. His hand moves to his hat, which was staring at her with it’s own vaguely cautious gaze, and he lifts it up off of his head in greeting, his other hand moving out for a handshake, a pleasant grin growing on his face. “Miss Magne. What a ssssurprise. Didn’t quite expect to see _you_ here. I’ve been well, as of late. I hope the West side of the City hasn’t been too much of a hassssle for you.”

“That’s great to hear!” She relaxes a touch with the conversation, though she’s still put on edge with the tenseness in his shoulders. “The West side’s been great, actually. I was down in the South yesterday, and, uh, well. Time’s have really changed. I’m trying to keep things a bit more... average today.” She takes her seat once again. “So you and Nora know each other?”

“Indeed. She’s actually been a long time work partner for a good few decadesss now.” Pentious moves to slowly coil himself up, head tilting a touch, claws folded together on the table, still smiling politely. “I was not aware that Nora knew _you,_ however. What’ssss the story there?”

Nora chuckles at him. “Remember how I’ve met Lucifer a few times before meeting you? One of those times was back in the late seventeen-hundreds. She was practically just a teen at the time, and her father couldn’t get home fast enough.”

Charlie’s face heats up, but she giggles at the memory anyways. “We had been walking around the City for hours by that point, and I was tired.”

“Didn’t _you_ have to bribe Lucifer with ice cream to get him to stop talking with me?”

“Ugh. I had to do that with a lot more people than just you, Nora. _A lot._ ”

That gets Pentious to smirk a touch, and he lets out a bit of a short chuckle. “Heh. Didn’t quite take the King of Hell to be sssomeone so easily tempted by sweets.” He glances over toward Razzle and Dazzle, who were watching him with wide eyes, and his tongue flickers out a touch, glancing toward Charlie. “Isss there something wrong? With them, I mean. They keep staring at me.” He casually points toward them with a talon.

“Oh, uh.” She looks down at them, giving them a short look, and they sheepishly turn away. “It’s probably just because you’re... you know... an Overlord.” She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. It’s clear it’s a big deal. “I mean, it’s not like my dad watched your latest attack on the East side or anything. Definitely not.”

His eyes narrow a touch, and his grin grows from polite to visibly pleased, growing larger, showing off teeth that were alarmingly sharp and even more alarmingly numerous, the tips of his hair seeming to bristle a touch before his hood unfurls with a soft snap. He chuckles softly at that. “Oh, did he now? I hope he enjoyed the show?”

“Oh, he liked it quite a bit.” She nods a few times. “He’s always been impressed by you, I think, with all your, uh, technology and everything.”

“Hehehe. Wonderful. I’m glad to hear it.”

Nora, having her beak buried in a book, mumbles to herself. “I can practically _see_ your ego getting bigger by the second.”

Pentious’s grin vanishes as he shoots a soft glare towards Nora, his tail giving a bit of a sharp flick. “I _heard_ that.” 

“I know.” She smirks right back, showing off those crocodile teeth.

Pentious huffs a touch and rolls his eyes before he glances back to both Razzle and Dazzle, his grin gone but a certain tenseness in his shoulders seeming to fade away as he tilts his head. “I’ve never seen demons like them before. Who are they?”

“They’re Razzle and Dazzle. They’re my best friends, and handcrafted by Lucifer himself.” She grins softly and pats Razzle on the head.

Pentious’s hood actually gives a twitch, and his expression turns more surprised. “ _Handcrafted,_ you say? As in, he created them? Fasssscinating.” He grows a bit of a grin and he lifts up his top hat again in greeting.

Razzle himself cautiously nods in greeting, while Dazzle merely narrows his eyes, making a quick “I’m watching you” gesture.

Pentious tilts his head at that, idly, and his tail flicks. “Can they speak?”

“No, they’re mute. We have a sort of...” She waves a hand. “...mental connection, though. Oh! We learned ASL over the last few decades. I don’t know if you know it, but...” She shrugs.

His hood twitches a touch at that, and his grin widens, his expression actually lighting up. “I do, actually! Been studying many languages throughout the years, in fact! Lets see...” His tongue flickers out as he turns to face Razzle and Dazzle again, hands lifting up in the air before starting to sign. _Good afternoon, you two. It’s nice to meet the both of you._

Both Razzle and Dazzle blink, before Razzle starts to sign back, cautiously. _Hello there. It’s pleasant to meet you too. Your hat is very scary._

Dazzle merely glares, looking away, a clear sign that he didn’t want to talk.

Pentious himself merely chuckles at Razzle’s comment, his hand lifting up to adjust the rim of said hat. “Thank you. It does tend to draw the eye, doesn’t it?”

“They’re probably just being extra cautious for me.” She grins at him and taps Dazzle’s horn. He huffs. “Okay, okay.” Charlie turns back to Pentious. “We haven’t had lunch yet, so they’re both a bit... on edge.”

“Oh, it’s no worry at all. To be perfectly honesssst, I would be worried if I walked into a room and someone _wasn’t_ on edge the first time they saw me. It’s something that one can only _expect_ with the reputation I’ve gained.” He grins a bit more smugly at that, chuckling.

Nora rolls her eyes. “You’re flexing, Sir Pentious.”

Charlie giggles. “Is it weird that it’s actually kind of refreshing? I remember people doing it last time I was walking around Hell. I kinda miss it in a way.”

“Oh, I can only imagine. Being trapped in that castle must have ssssurely drove you crazy, didn’t it?” He raises a brow. “Pardon me for asking, but _why_ exactly did he keep you in your home for so long? If I can recall, you were hidden away even when _I_ fell down here.”

“Well....” Her expression deflates as she looks away from him. “It was, uh... There was an attack. Some people tried to assassinate me, and they kinda... almost managed it.” She frowns for a moment, then shakes her head and pushes her hair back. “But that’s over now! And I’m finally back in the City.”

Pentious’s grin falls away as he hears that, and for a moment, he doesn’t say a word, his tail flicking slightly against the ground. But then he begins to grin once more, a bit more softly now. “Indeed you are. I imagine it must be a touch odd, seeing how much the City has changed. You ssssaid you traveled to the South side already?”

She groans and rolls her eyes. “It was horrible. I just wanted to play the slot machine with Razzle and Dazzle, just to see what was going on and all, and-” She buries her face, hiding a blush. “I walked right into the _Moonlight Blitz._ ”

Pentious winces heavily, and his hood drops back down. “Oh, God. That place. _Eugh._ I’ve heard enough rumors of that place to know to never go _near_ it. I’m posssitive that even if I took my most powerful ship and reduced that building to a crater, it would sssomehow find a way to come back like some kind of undead beassst crawling out of it’s grave.”

“Ugh.” She laughs despite it and lowers her hands. “I think I’d be grateful if you tried, but I’d rather you not start a war as of right now. Way too much to relearn as is.”

“Of coursssse, Princess.” He chuckles at that. “I can’t make any precisssse promises, but I assure you that ssstarting a war is the last thing I want to do as of right now. What happened on the East side wassss little more than nipping a plant in the bud, ssso to speak.”

“That’s, uh, that’s good to hear, I guess.” She offers a small smile. “So what are you two researching? I was just asking Nora about it before you came in.”

“Oh, right, yes.” His tongue flickers out at that as he picks up a book to glance over the cover. “A man recently has been running around my side of the City, in my territory, causing trouble for my operations. Going so far as to kill one of my own men. I decided to try and take a look through his history from little I could gather about him to try and figure out who he is. And it turns out he left behind quite the bloody legacy.” He hands her the book that he was looking at, and it displays a blood-spattered knife, placed right next to a bowl of what appears to be stew, the title displayed in upper case letters: _Cannibal On The Air: A Deep Analysis Of The Life And Crimes of Adam Walker, The New Orleans Butcher._

“ _Cannibal On The Air..._ ” Charlie takes the book, staring at it for a moment. “ _New Orleans Butcher..._ ” An itch traces down her spine. She flips the book open to a random page. “Do you know anything else about him?” The words _radio host_ jump out at her and she has to work to keep her face straight.

“Hmm...He has quite the ssstrange ability involving magic. And his method of killing, as far as we know, is quite bloody. One of my ssssoldiers had their throat torn out. Examination of the body revealed that this man had done it with his _teeth.”_ His lip curls idly in disgust, and his hood bristles, eyes narrowing down at the table. “Of all the _loathssssome_ beasts that call Hell their home, this one is the most ghoulish I’ve seen in a while.”

Bloody killing, ghoulish even to Sir Pentious, and strange magic to boot. She recalls how the radio had refused to turn off until it had been unplugged from its outlet and takes a deep breath. Her hands fold together over the book in front of her. “What’s his name? What does he go by here in Hell?” There’s an edge of seriousness in her voice, and she looks between Nora and Pentious as she asks the questions.

Nora and Pentious glance at each other for a moment, before Pentious shakes his head. “We don’t exactly know. The one persssson who managed to get close enough to really see him was the man who was bitten, and he has yet to reanimate.” His head tilts, and his eyes narrow. “...Do _you_ know this man?”

“ _I_ don’t, not really, but someone I know does.” Charlie exhales. “From what he said, this guy...” She flips back to the front cover. “If it’s the same guy, which it sounds like it is, then Adam Walker, or _Alastor,_ as he goes by now... He’s _much_ more dangerous than he’s letting people think. Dangerous enough I’ve been considering letting my dad know.” She pages through the text looking for any images. “But I know he won’t handle the situation properly, so, for now, it’s just up to me.” She looks up at them. “ _Please,_ don’t tell him. At least, so long as he doesn’t get worse.”

Again, Pentious and Nora glance at each other, before Pentious nods at that. “You have my word, Princess. I’ll not breathe a word of this to the King. Though, if I may, who _is_ this person that supposedly knows this…Alastor?”

“He’s...” Her gaze drifts to the side. “He wants to stay anonymous for the time being, in case things escalate. I’m not giving up his name. But he’s..a friend.” She continues flipping through her book. “Are there any images of Adam in these books? There has to be with how many there are.”

Nora holds up the book that she’s been reading. “This one has pictures. Lots of them in fact. I think this particular novel was the first one about Adam that was made.”

“Can I see it? Thanks.” She takes the book and flips to a random page. Her mouth opens to say something, but the words fizzle out upon seeing the absolute joy captured in the image. A man with close cropped hair and short bangs in a vest and suspenders is caught laughing with an older woman hoist onto his back. They look so similar that Charlie can only assume the woman to be his mother. She shakes her head after a moment. “Okay, he does not look like what I imagined a spooky New Orleans murderer to look like.” She flips to another page. “He looks really... normal.”

“Yes, that’s something we noticed too.” Pentious nods at that, His tail flicking, a claw trilling atop one of the books. “Whoever this Alastor is, he’s quite good at hiding, a master of it, even. Partly the reason why I haven’t tracked him down yet.”

“At least I’ll be able to vaguely recognize him now.” She frowns and puts a hand to her forehead. “From what I know, he may be living with someone who could be in danger. I only know her human name, but the description of her is, uh, short, one eye, cute dress, and short hair. Did you happen to see her when you saw him?”

Nora raises her head at that, and her shoulders grow stiff. “...Yes. Yes, I did. She looked unharmed, if that’s what you mean by...danger.”

“Really!?” Charlie straightens in her seat, eyes widening. “That’s great. I mean, for the time being, I suppose. When did you see her? And were they together? Did they leave together?”

Pentious’s gaze flicks towards Nora, who glances back down for a moment, sighing. “..I saw her about three days ago. She was by herself. I do not know if she was with him or not.”

“Okay. Where did you see her?” Charlie leans toward her. “I just want to see if I can find her again and make sure she’s safe. Because if she’s living with Alastor, she _isn’t_ safe.”

“I..” Nora seems to go quiet for a moment, as if trying to think. “...The Southwest sector. I believe it was either North or Southwest. Apologies. I can’t quite remember.”

“No, that really helps a lot.” Charlie gives her a warm smile. “Believe it or not, half of Pentagram City is a lot better than half of all of Hell. I just hope she’s still alright....” She taps the paper in front of her, then pulls out the 1930s files she had grabbed earlier. “Apparently Alastor died in the 1930s.”

“We had been examining ssssome of his crimes that had occurred in the 20’s before you showed up. I’m not sure how much they might be able to asssist in helping you find him, but they’ve certainly helped us realize what exactly we’re dealing with.” Pentious himself moves to pick up a group of newspaper clippings, handing them over to her. “They’re quite...grizzly.”

“I, uh...” She puts her hand up. “Maybe later. I don’t know if I’ll need to know anything _that_ specific yet. Aside from what you’ve told me, which confirms a few... things, all I need to know is how he died.” She starts going through the folder labeled C and starts searching through it for _Crime_ . She frowns a little at the sorting system, but rolls with it, searching through the _CR_ tab and wading through the subjects under it. “Wow, there is a lot in this folder.”

“Hmm...” Pentious’s tail flicks a touch. “Nora, do any of those books mention what exactly caussssed his death?“

“Yes. It’s quite the matter of contention, actually.” She pages through the book she’s currently reading and scans through it, then shakes her head and merely looks between the two of them. “There are varying reports of the exact events, but each of them end in him being attacked by a group of police dogs and shot in the forehead by a police officer.”

Charlie winces. “I thought dogs were supposed to be nice.”

“Some police officers use certain dogs as deterrents, or to chase fleeing suspects.”

“Still...” She exhales as she finds the _Crime_ folder, starting to sort through it for articles dated 1933. “The police are the people who are supposed to enforce law, right? I don’t know much about them, admittedly.”

Pentious’s tongue flickers out at that, and his lips curl slightly in a hiss, his tail rattling a touch. “Technically, yes, that is their job. Unfortunately, they’re jusssst as corrupt as every other person up in the mortal world. Some take the job for ethically pure reasons, true. But others take the job for the ssssake of power, of privilege, and being free to do whatever they wish. Mosssst of the time, that means going around and kicking around those who can’t fight back. Usually the poor or those of minorities. Had to deal with them myssself when I was alive, and it was _awful_.”

“Oh.” She looks up from her sorting as he talks, her brows drawing together. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. All my dad ever says when I asked him about police is that they have no place in Hell, which...” She shrugs. “Makes sense. This place is practically run on anarchy.” She turns back to her folder. “1933, 1933.... There is a lot of crime on Earth. Not that there isn’t any down here, but... Wow.” She skips a bunch of _New York Daily News_ articles and blinks. “New Orleans. Finally.”

“Hmm...See if you can find anything about police attacksss. I doubt it would end up in the crime folder, but there should also be one for police brutality. And before you ask, yes, that’s actually an official term.”

She winces again. “The police are not nice people, is what I’m getting.” She flips through. “Nothing, nothing... Missing persons report, vandalism... What month was he killed?”

“Nora?”

“Reports differ on the numbers, but it is agreed upon that it was October.”

“October, October....” Charlie flips through more articles, then starts going slower. “More vandalism, protest arrests - oh, wow, that’s horrible - attempted manslaughter? Uh.... Here. Police brutality.” She scans what she can read. ”A number of protestors... That doesn’t sound right. Um....” She flips forward. “No, no, no, no-” She blinks and pulls an article out, a front page headline by the looks of it. “ _Star Radio Host Adam Walker Dead Following Purported Police Violence._ ”

She lays the paper in front of her, showing it to Nora and Pentious. The image under the headline is a smiling photo of Adam posing with a large trophy under his arm, topped with a radio microphone. She reads:

“ _Police have confirmed the death of Adam Walker and the involvement of an unnamed police officer late last night. Witnesses reported hearing the sounds of multiple dogs barking, shortly followed by screams, and..._ ” Charlie presses her lips together and takes a deep breath, momentarily reading ahead to better verbalize the report. “ _Witnesses claim the officer involved watched the dogs assault the man while yelling insults and slurs, and then proceeded to unholster his gun and shoot him in the forehead._ ”

Charlie lets go of the paper and rubs her face, taking several deep breaths as she feels a vague fuzziness enter his fingers.

Nora is silent, while Pentious’s tongue flickers out in a hiss. “..And here I thought he was shot because sssomeone has found him out. But no. Ssseeems like our killer friend here was shot dead all because some _pig_ didn’t like the color of his sssskin.” His hood visibly bristles, and his tail lashes a touch. “Dessspicable.”

“I don’t get why people do things like this,” Charlie exhales, rubbing her temples. Dazzle tugs on her pant leg and gives her a concerned look. She smiles weakly at him. “I’m alright, bud. Just... it’s a lot.” She pushes a few strands of hair out of her face and scans the article, flipping it over. “This may sound weird, but I need an image of, um, his corpse, if possible. I guess they wouldn’t be printed in newspapers, but... are there any in the books?”

Nora pauses to start flipping through one of the other books stacked on top of the pile, before she slowly turns the book around, displaying a rather grizzly picture of Adam himself, laying dead in a pool of his own blood on the ground, a massive splotch of red right in the center of his forehead. His eyes were glassy, wide with fear, and even then, a giant grin was still permanently stretched over his lips. “Geez...” Charlie leans forward, trying to take in all the details and feeling her stomach roil at the same time. There were tears in his clothing where the dogs had bitten through and punctured his skin. And that grin... she had assumed the smiling business was a Hell thing, not a life and death thing. She shivers and leans back, looking away. “Okay. Okay, um... Can I borrow one of the books for a little? I don’t know if I’ll need to do more research for any reasons, but...”

Pentious and Nora glance at each other before he nods, glancing back toward Charlie, a grin slowly forming over his face, a pleasant one, almost pleased. “Of courssse. It’s the least I can do for your help, after all. You gave this new nuissssance of mine an identity I can put a face to. That may not ssseem like much, but I assure you, it will help when it comes to tracking him down.”

“Yeah, tracking him down...” Charlie stands after a moment, looking between a few of the books she had been handed and taking the one with more pictures. “If you do go after him, can you try and be careful? I’m still not sure if the girl is with him or not. I’d like to keep the death toll as close to zero as possible.” 

That gets Pentious to hum for a moment, his grin dropping as he does so, his eyes narrowing in thought. Then he glances back toward her, his expression contemplative. “...If you wish for me and my men to keep their dissstance, Princess, I’d be willing to do so. But at the sssame time, I’m not exactly keen on the idea of this _Alastor_ roaming around my territory looking to take a bite out of soldiers. So, I suggest a compromise.” He visibly straightens, his coils slithering as he raises himself upwards, as if standing, arms folded, staring down now towards the princess with a composed expression. “I will allow you to sssspend your time within the West side tracking this man down in an effort to locate this girl you sssseek, but in exchange, you inform me on any leads you might obtain, via Nora. Doesss that sound fair, Princess?”

Charlie blinks at him, giving him a slightly worried look at the comment about taking bites out of soldiers. There is a lot to unpack from that statement, but she doesn’t really have the time. “I... suppose it makes sense, but there are some things that I’d like to keep out of the public knowledge for the time being. And as much as I believe I can trust both you and Nora, I’d rather not risk the information somehow getting out. _Not_ that either of you would leak information, but-” She laughs nervously at catching the slip up, then coughs into his fist to collect herself. “There are demons in Hell who can tap phonelines.”

That gets Pentious to smirk a touch, as if he was amused, and his tail flicks. “Of coursssse, Miss Magne. Perfectly underssstandable.” His eyes flick to Nora for a moment before his gaze turns back to her. “One more thing. Should you ever require sssafety, though I doubt it would come to that, and you find yoursssself in the West side, you’re welcome to find any of my men for aid. It might be a touch difficult to ssspot, but you’ll be able to identify them via these.” He holds his hand in the air for a moment, and from his palm comes slithering a black spectral flame that quickly takes the shape of a serpent with a singular eyeball, the same type of eye that dot Pentious’s body, and it briefly opens its mouth to hiss, exposing sharp fangs. Pentious glances toward it. “They should have these acting as marksss on their body. The most common place is the arm or leg. If you see anyone like that, know they are under my jurisdiction and will help you, should you need it.” He closes his fist and within an instant, the snake visibly disintegrates, it’s form cracking and crumbling into shards that fade like embers.

Charlie's eyes widen at the display, and she leans in to inspect the magic before he dissipates it. "That's very... Interesting, Sir Pentious. I'll take that into consideration, though I doubt I'll need it." She hugs the book to her chest and flashes him a grin before turning to Nora. "It's been great seeing you again. I'll be sure to call you if I need anything. I think my dad still has your phone number tucked away somewhere. Maybe we can catch up sometime? Hopefully under a better situation."

Nora’s grin seems to finally come back at that, and she nods softly. “Of course, Charlie. I would love that. And I wish you good luck. If anything happens, do try to keep me informed, alright? And be safe out there.”

"I will." She grins a bit more, chuckling as she starts walking off. "And don't worry. I get enough of that from my parents. Good luck to you guys too! And don't forget lunch if you haven't had any yet." She looks down at Razzle as he clicks his heels. "Yes, we're getting food now." She waves at Nora and Pentious before disappearing behind the shelves and heading to the front of the library.

“It’s been nice to finally meet you in perssson, Miss Magne!” Pentious moves to lift up his hat again, his other hand idly waving, and as soon as she dips out of sight, he lets his hat drop. His eyes flicker to Nora as he lets a slight scowl curl over his face, and within an instant, his voice enters her mind, ringing like a bell. _Looks like there’s been something that Alastor has yet to tell me. And it has to do with the King’s very own daughter. How troublesome._ His tail lashes, and his hood bristles.

 _I've been telling you that he's the type to keep secrets._ Nora glances between him and the corner of her vision. _Though I am confused as to what he could be hiding that could warrant so much attention. The Magnes rarely involve themselves in these kinds of matters._

_So am I. That’s what worries me. Having her in the picture certainly complicates things, to a degree. Not to mention she’s looking for that Niffty girl._

_If she does find Alastor, there's a chance he and Niffty could smooth things over._ She turns entirely to him. _I think they'd be able to manage it._

 _Perhaps. I’m more concerned about what exactly Alastor has done to warrant the attention of the Magne family. She hasn’t told her father about it yet, but if she does...I don’t think I need to stress what could possibly happen._ His tail lashes a touch, a claw tapping against the cover of a book. _She doesn’t know Alastor is under my jurisdiction so at_ least _there’s that, and she also agreed to my terms, so I can keep track on what exactly she knows and how close she’s getting._

_She didn't say she'd tell you everything._ Nora flips through the book in front of her. _She explicitly said there were things she couldn't tell either of us, and she knows me better than you. There's no guarantee we'll have a good eye on her progress._

His tongue flickers out at that, and he scowls a touch. _Yes, but it still means that we have a chance to gain insight, and as of right now, a chance is all we can afford. She doesn’t know everything we know, so I doubt she’ll discover anything truly groundbreaking. I just want to make sure she doesn’t uncover anything about_ my _operations. Besides, you’ve read the news, haven’t you? That little skirmish that her and the Eldritch had outside the Moonlight Blitz is bound to erupt at some point. I just need to handle my cards right until it does._

 _You make a fair point. I'll keep you updated if she seeks me out._ She looks up at him. _Maybe you should contact Alastor, in case anything happens. He's supposed to be out and about with his new squad, right?_

 _Indeed. It’s probably best that I check in and see how he’s handling them anyway_. His eyes flick away, staring off into the distance for a moment, and he lets one of his hands slowly clench in a fist, claws starting to glow a deep, crimson hue. His face grows pensive for a moment, as if he were deep in thought, before his eyes narrow, and his tail notably lashes in a moment of anger, hood bristling as it starts to unfurl. “...He’s not with Loralai. He’s heading East.”

" _What?_ " Nora leans over the table, speaking in hushed whispers. "You gave them explicit instructions to stay with him, right? The East side was where he last got blindsided by the gangs. What is he thinking?"

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” He glances over at her. “If you want to take any of these books with you, check them out now.”

"Now?" She takes in the brewing annoyance on his face and the way his tail twitches again and stands, collecting a few of the books she had gone through. "Try not to kill him, if at all possible, yeah?"

His tongue flickers out in annoyance, and his lip curls to display his teeth in a scowl. “Tempting as it would ssseem, murder would be, quite literally, overkill. No, I just want to know what he’s planning. Because he is planning _sssomething._ I realize that now.”

"I merely mean to be calm with him." Nora grins at him, then walks off to check out her chosen books.

“Hmmm.” He watches her for a moment, before glancing downward toward the table, tail idly lashing back and forth. He lets his magic flow over his claws, lets his senses narrow inward on that one single marked soul, steadily making his way East, and he feels himself scowl, eyes narrowing. This man. This one man. Already so full of secrets. It was as irritating as it was intriguing.

•••

"Hmm, hm hm hm, hmmm~" Alastor strolls down the street, one of his hands swaying in time to the beat humming through his mind and lips. Someone whistles the tune back to him after passing him and he laughs and spins to give them finger guns before continuing on his way to the East side of Pentagram City. He's almost halfway there, and making good time too. One of the knives he had used in the fight is tucked snuggly against his ankle. Hopefully _Rex_ is home already. That would definitely help with his schedule. Rex. He didn’t quite think that would be the name of the man who had went and lodged a bullet in the center of Niffty’s head, but he had to admit, it certainly fit his lack of standards. Pathetically brutish and absolutely appalling in every meaning of the word. He wondered if this pathetic beast would recognize him, somehow; surely Vox would’ve shown the man some kind of picture when he had sent his men to try and scour the East to find him. He wondered what kind of look this man would have on his face when he realized that his time was drawing to a close.

He wouldn’t be surprised if he was terrified, if he tried to fight back with rage and fear, knowing what was coming next. It’d make for a better kill, certainly. He’d be able to toy with him, watch the man flounder in his attempts, maybe even let him land a hit _just_ to see how futile the endeavor would be. Alastor chuckles at that, aloud, and some folks wearing wide-brimmed hats while lounging on their front stoop give him a look like _he’s_ the insane one for giggling at nothing. If only they knew! If only they could see the images of walls painted crimson and the future attempts of this nobody demon squirming to deny it. He had washed his hands and face of blood, but his vest would have to wait for a proper cleaning that evening. With the water he had dabbed on it, it almost looked like a simple alcohol stain, but a keener demon would know differently.

He takes a deep breath and exhales. It’s times like these where he misses his cane. Such a useful little thing to fidget and dance with.

It was then that a sudden flare entered his temples, a warm sort of throb that almost had his steps wobble as he walked across the sidewalk, and for a moment, he assumed it to be just another internal headache from the shotgun blast that had gone off in his ear. But then, just as quickly, the throbbing faded, and then came a voice. A familiar one. One that dripped with dim anger and aggravation. 

_Alastor._

His grin splits across his face. Sir Pentious! What luck to have him drop by in his mind of all things. He hums and rubs his chin. How did this communication work again? It wasn’t passive thought, so probably intentional expression? He shrugs and kicks a bottle into the road to hopefully break under someone’s tire later. _Hello, hello! Is this thing on? Testing. Apologies, it’s been quite some time since I’ve had to do this. So, how have you been?_

There wasn’t any visible answer, obviously, but there was somewhat of a lengthy pause before Pentious responded, his voice sounding just a touch more snappish. _Can you_ pleasssse _explain to me as to why you have left the West side and have split from your group and are now heading East? Without making me aware?_

Alastor raises a brow. _I wasn’t aware that I, a 61 year old man, needed to ask permission of my new boss to take a walk around town. But to answer your question, I’ve found some information about someone I have a vendetta against and am on my way to kill them. Should be fun! Lori and Jazz and I just finished up at the Roaring Gates a little while ago. They’re turning in a few coats for a bounty._

 _Hmph. I’d advise to lose some of the sassss, Alastor. You informed me yesterday that both Valentino and Vox have it out for your head and that you were ambushed and attacked down at the East, where you now just so_ happen _to be headed. Pardon me if I’m not exactly keen on you going off on your own and mafficking about._

He snorts. “Mafficking.” _Please, they don’t even know half of what I can do. I practically_ let _them take me to keep them underestimating me. But I’ve lost my patience since then and this is the consequence._ He looks at his nails, picking at a minuscule fleck of dried blood. _Besides, I have a boss now. I wouldn’t dream of making you look bad, my dear._

 _My worry is not on behalf of you making me_ look bad. _My worry is about you getting yoursssself captured or killed, and having your cover as my latesssst recruit blown. Half of what lends me the edge in this proverbial game is the fact that both Valentino and Vox have no true idea of how many I have under my thumb, least of all that I have_ you _working for me. You sssslip up, you get caught, and the element of sssurprise, in your case, is tossed out the window. Not to mention the fact that you’d be trapped behind enemy linessss. I meant what I said yesterday. Any potential death to any sssoldier of mine poses a risk. A risk I’d like to avoid as much as possible._

“Hmm.” He considers it, then exhales and shakes his head. _All I want to do is kill one measly little demon and I’ll find my way back to the Center and into the West side, you have my word. I have no intention of being captured, and if things appear to be heading that way, I’ll leave immediately. And I must admit I’m rather offended that you’d think I’d rat you out, especially to the likes of Valentino and Vox. I’m much more tight lipped than that._

_You wouldn’t believe how many have said that, in some way or another. Next thing I know, I have to kill them myself just so they won’t spill a word. Consider me skeptical to say the least._

_I suppose I can understand that._ Alastor gives another passerby a large smile that has them scurrying away from him. _I’ll spare you the attempts at convincing you otherwise, though I’ll be keeping this in mind for the future. But I will be killing the demon, with or without your permission to do so._

 _I never said you needed it._ There was a slight pause. _Who exactly is this poor fellow you’re butchering? What did they do? Call you a gigglemug? Cop you a mouse? Spit in your coffee?_

 _His name is Rex, and he’s the man who put a bullet in Niffty’s head not too long ago._ He switches the tune he’s humming and dances a little on the sidewalk before continuing at a moderate pace, arms tucked behind his back. _I don’t care for things as trivial as name calling and ruined coffee._

_Hmmm. Why split from your group, then? It’s not like Loralai or Jasmine are squeamish when it comes to murder._

_Because this one is_ my _kill and I don’t like others getting in the way of my hunts. So rarely do I actually_ target _someone for slaughter. Usually it’s unsuspecting randoms. They scream so much louder when you answer ‘why’ with ‘because I want to.’_

There was a sound as if Pentious was trying to restrain a chuckle. _Spoken like a true killer, that’s for certain._

 _Glad to hear I’m meeting the benchmark._ He smirks, turning onto another street. _You know, I was expecting you to be the type to want heads rather than jackets. I was hoping to show the others my skills in decapitation._

_Jackets are more viable proof than heads. Anyone would be able to feasibly lop off some beast’s head and then turn it in for a bounty if that were to be the case. And I want to have feasible evidence that any enemy who dares to try and invade my territory is properly dealt with._

_True. But what if it was someone recognizable as a Valentino member?_

_Hmmm....I never considered that. It’s not likely to happen, or else I would have set up an extra rule for it._

_Hmm. Do you know anything about a pig named Maurice?_ He glances at the street sign as he comes up to it, grinning at the words "Brook Road."

_Maurice? Hmm. Not particularly. What about him? Was he someone that you ran into in the Roaring Gates?_

_He runs security detail for Valentino on occasion. He's the one who gave me the address I'm heading toward. I wonder how long it's been that I got that information... Must be old by now._

_Is he now? And you went and chopped off his head?_

_Well, I wanted to, but Loralai looked at me like I was an insane man for it. But I did tear off his ear, sever a few muscles, that sort of thing. Surprisingly easy to get him to talk._

_Hmm. Almost too easy. Don’t you think?_

_Not at all. Rex is one of Vox's men and someone who broke mafia code. Thrown to the wolves unless they want to explain to Val why people think he's playing dirty._

_Hmmm. I see. Very well, if you’re so confident that it isn’t a trap._

_Oh, look, I seem to have found the house._ He stops for a moment to tap the mailbox, then opens it and grabs the mail inside. Useless thing, mail in Hell. But the name on the first one is _Rex._ He tosses the envelopes over his shoulder and walks up the little path to the front door of a single story house. _Can I take a rain check on the rest of this conversation?_

_Hmph. I suppose so. But report back to me as soon as you’re done. I want you out of the East section as soon as that Rex fellow is dead._

_With pleasure._ He grins widely at the door, feeling the static well in his throat and click as he raises one hand to knock on the door in front of him.

There was no answer. He waits for a few moments before knocking again. Again, no answer. “Hmm.” He eyes the doorknob, then shakes his head and walks over to the nearest window, trying to peer inside. If someone was in there, they would have responded, either by shouting or shooting through the door. And if this _was_ a trap, then the most obvious thing to do would be to rig the front door to explode. The shades on the window were drawn, and though they were mere fabric, they did quite the job at covering up the view. From what little he could see through the crack, he found that the lights within were all off, and that there was a vague silhouette of a figure, too dark to properly see.

Alastor narrows his eyes, then stalks around the corner of the building and toward the back, looking for a backdoor or other kind of entrance while he lets his senses fan out in search of sources of magic. From what he could feel, there was no kind of protective barrier, no kind of imminent fire or explosion sigil rigged to activate, no freezing spell to turn him into an ice cube the moment he undoes the lock. Nothing of the sort. Just a regular house in a regular part of Hell, with the door locked. The backyard was nothing more than a simple wooden fence guarding a minute patch of grass, with a wooden door on the top of one or two cement steps. It’s only when he turned the doorknob did he find that there was no click of a lock. No rigid system to prevent the knob from turning. It simply opened.

He squints and walks inside, glancing around a small kitchen only lit by the now open door. No one around, by the looks of it. “Hello? Rexy? It’s your old friend Alastor, come to tear your limbs apart.” He waits a moment, and nothing comes. He lights a small fire in his palm and walks into the next room. “I swear, if you already moved houses...” Looked to be a simple dining room for the most part. A wooden table with no covering or decoration, complete with two chairs and what looked to be a television set propped up on an empty beer crate. The room was completely clean and free of dust, as if it were still in use, and he squints again, though, at the sight of a bowl of soup, still sitting there at the table, completely full. It had a thick film over the broth that suggested it had been sitting there for at least a day, and a quick stir with the spoon still in it reveals the contents to be chicken noodle.

“...What had you in such a hurry, you wannabe king?” He drops the spoon back into the bowl and moves on, still picking up no latent magic in the air. He’d have to check for attic spaces and basements, but he wants to see the front of the house first. That silhouette... curious, curious. 

It was then, when he walked past the kitchen and into a small, rather blemished hallway with dull, peeling wallpaper, that he saw the darkened shape of what could only be a person, of what could only by Rex, nigh motionless in the darkened room dead ahead of him. He lets a grin curl over his lips, lets his claws unsheathe, and he chuckles to himself. He takes a singular step forward, a witty phrase on his lips, only for it to die immediately before it can form. 

Blood. He smelled blood.

Alastor’s face twitches and a faint growl works its way through his throat. The fire in his hand leaps away and splits into a ring around the room, illuminating a very average living room with a very not average pike slammed into the floorboards. A severed head stares from the top, a look of abject horror frozen onto features reminiscent of a bat, one ear missing. Alastor’s claws clench and he takes a deep breath, stalking toward the display. The scent of blood and decay grows more, permeating just the air around the pike; he couldn’t have been dead longer than a day. He pauses as he gets close and narrows his eyes on the ground, pulling one of the flames closer to highlight the ground.

 _You’re Welcome,_ with a smiley face attached and a fork and knife crossed over each other in front of it.

His face twitches again and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then kneels down to look over the silverware. No need to get ahead of himself. He could rage any time he wanted. But he’d hate himself less if collected clues first.

It didn’t look as if they were used as weapons. If anything they looked as if they were plucked right from the kitchen. He lets his eyes glance from the silverware to the floor, to the room around him. No smashed windows, no broken doors, no clear sign of a struggle. There was no visible sign of bloody footprints either. No bloodstains _anywhere_ on the floor, besides the intentional message that was smeared onto the boards, the handwriting surprisingly neat and sophisticated, despite the crude method.

“Hmm... Not killed here, then.” He narrows his eyes on the silverware as he stands, then grips the head in one hand and the pike with the other. The weapon slips out of the skull with a faint, wet noise, shortly followed by a waft of fresher blood. He freezes for a moment, eyes narrowing as a sense of _familiarity_ pokes at him with the scent. He swallows as saliva pools in his mouth. He hadn’t seen this man before, yet he somehow recognized his blood? Strange, even for him. Maybe one of the many bar fights he’d been involved in, or an attempted robbery, or....

His eyes widen. Fork and knife. _You’re Welcome._ No body.

No body _here._ But his freezer, back home.... He turns the head upside down and looks at the marks to the skin and bone. Clean. Cleaner than a regular bone saw. Possibly motorized.

He can feel his claws trembling. His jaw grits, teeth clenching that he swears he feels them start to creak and grind together. Someone stole his kill. Stole it and proceeded to fling it in his face without him even knowing it, took the body that he was meant to slaughter and butchered it into masterful cuts as if it was a package he had gotten from a deli. Whoever this person was, they knew damn well what he was doing, and they _wanted_ him to know that. Not only that but they had managed to predict his movements as well. They _knew_ him somehow. And either the message was an ill attempt at pleasantries or meant to be sarcastic, a _haha I beat you_ of sorts. A fanatic, or a rival. He drops the head and let's it plop to the ground near his feet. The gift would imply a fan more than anything. Maybe someone who listens to his broadcast? He had been laying hints for well over a decade now....

But even then… There’s no way that a mere fanatic would’ve been able to determine that he would’ve wanted Rex dead, would have gone to his house, would have _found him at all,_ not unless they somehow knew how Rex was involved with hunting him down. Even if they somehow did know, just by sheer efforts via stalking, the time that Rex had shot Niffty was when he had gone off the air. How could a simple fan have been able to locate him at all, much less keep track of his every single move, when his face was entirely unknown to his listeners? To the point where they knew where he had moved to?

He couldn’t rule out a member of Valentino’s or Vox’s gang being a listener of his. While unlikely, he’d be willing to put money on the possibility. Pentious and Nora know offhandedly about Rex, though seemingly less than he did. It didn’t make sense for either of them to be fanatics, though, nor for any of Pentious’ men to be fanatics when he seemed to hire levelheaded individuals over random street thugs. He was one of if not the first serial killer to join him, and Alastor wasn’t the type to lie about the lengthy list of neuroses that more or less applied to himself. Then there’s Niffty; too innocent to hurt a fly, as far as he could tell.

And then there were the spies.

He paces, hands clasped behind his back as he tries to keep his claws sheathed. Lucifer runs a tight ship on all of Hell. If all the Overlords are controlling their little groups, he’s somehow controlling the Overlords, or he has eyes inside their organizations. And, for reasons he doesn’t even dare think of, Lucifer had always been a personal nuisance for Alastor. He couldn’t even be bitter about it. The thirties had been a rollercoaster. But why would he come back _now_ of all times? It’s not as if he’s raised his head, or bumped into anyone with direct lines to the King of Hell-

He goes still. _Stolas._ That bloody owl resting on gold trimmed laurels and supposed _armies_ of legionaries. He doubts Stolas would have a care in the world for him, but if he had given his description to _Lucifer,_ and Lucifer had managed to dig through _Rosie’s_ records....

His claws slowly bite against his palms, slowly start to dig into his own hands, and his smile curls in on itself from how hard it was trying to stay straight, stay immaculate. Here he was, trying so damn hard to stay out of the way, to stay out of sight of the King, and yet all because of some random chance encounter, it all could’ve potentially come crashing down. He didn’t know for sure if this was Lucifer’s work, if this was the work of his spies or his agencies or any of the dozens of angels that he held in his council, but all he knew was that this person, this brand new killer stalking the streets, had begun to target him. To stalk him.

To _taunt_ him.

The flames hovering near the ceiling flicker and swell, and the paint curls and darkens into brown and then black. The curtains catch and a rug somewhere in the room starts melting plastic onto hardwood flooring.

Alastor lets out a breath through his nose and straightens his hands, wiping his palms together as if there aren’t cuts trying to heal. Oh, he’d find whoever was behind this. He’d find them, and he’d kill them, and he’d make their death _last._ But until then, he would merely send a message.

His heels click across the room, each step setting another flare of crimson fire in its wake, and opens the front door and steps outside and toward the sidewalk. He pauses for a moment, oozing murderous intent and chaos, and raises a hand and snaps his fingers. The walls of the building catch fire, windows shatter and expel glass onto the street, and he feels his pupils contract into pinprick slits.

 _God,_ he just wants to set this entire _block_ on fire.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We tried to make a shorter chapter. It’s still pretty long. RIP.
> 
> Don’t forget to give kudos and reply if you like what you see!

He only knew he was heading south based on the facts that the buildings were steadily getting taller and the streets more crowded. He had long since left the blaze of fire behind him, but the simmering anger hadn’t lessened a bit. Luckily, though, seeing as no one was moving out of his way or giving him odd looks, he was managing to look his usual, charming self to the average onlooker. He knew where he was heading, though the exact thoughts weren’t entirely coherent in his mind, and he only fully recognizes it when he sees that statue fountain with the book in front of it and a roundabout full of cars. Alastor walks into Rosie’s Emporium, stands stiffly in line, and _doesn’t_ forget to hand over all his metallics before stepping through the arch. He makes a beeline for the nearest elevator, unfortunately halfway across the building, and presses a sequence of buttons he knows will bring him to Rosie’s office.

The elevator doors soon closed and began to make their steady descent upwards, and it was only then that he finally lets his claws slowly clench into fists, the only outward indication that he could afford to give. He could feel his anger, his agitation, writhing in his insides like a pit of snakes, could feel the way the air was crackling around him and slowly growing more and more agitated with each passing second, and he had to lift a hand to his lips just to make sure that he was, in fact, still smiling. His eyes were pinned on the lights of the floor numbers up above the door, slowly winking in and out to indicate the floors he was passing within the tower, one of his ears giving a sharp twitch. It wasn’t long before the doors finally opened to reveal a long hallway, of ornate offices, the walls made up of cement, colored pink with golden trimmings, each and every door having a line of glass acting as a window. The door at the end of the hall had Rosie’s face plastered onto it, with a sign hanging off the door that read “Do Not Disturb.”

Alastor ignores all the glass walls, all the workers meeting discussing shipping and stock and sales, and walks directly to Rosie’s door, his shoes dampened by the carpet. His hand grabs the handle of the door and he bursts inside, finally letting out an exasperated groan as he tosses the door closed. “I have had it to _here-_ ” His hand moves up to just above his antlers. “-with nosy, ungrateful, _arrogant_ demons involving themselves in _my_ business! I don’t even know what goes on in their heads, thinking they can simply do my work for me without even showing their face. Or asking first! Talk about manners.” He paces in front of her desk, waving his arms and laughing bitterly at the thought. Maybe he should sharpen his knife collection when he gets back to the house.

Rosie herself was sitting behind a large wooden desk, carved elegantly with the shape of both her face and with the image of her Grimoire, and when Alastor bursts in, her sockets are left wide with shock, a coffee mug halfway held to her lips. The desk itself was littered with thick packets of what looked to be paperwork and other forms of legal jargon, and after a moment, Rosie sighs and places her mug back down, running a hand through her hair, her hat hanging on a coat rack next to the door. “...Alastor, calm down, honey. People can hear you.”

He huffs, one of his ears twitching. Concrete walls could do a lot to muffle sound. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, and merely presses his lips together. “I could care less about someone hearing me. In fact, I’d rather a certain someone, whoever they be, hear me _very_ loud and clear when I say I _do not_ appreciate their little game they’re playing.”

“Are you talking about Valentino?” She raises a brow at that, finally lifting her head up to look at him, frowning. “What has he done this time?”

“ _Not_ Valentino, though if it _is_ him, or someone connected to him, I’d both be surprised and actually somewhat impressed.” He slows his pace somewhat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know who it is.”

“What?” She frowns a touch harder. “Wait, what exactly happened?”

Alastor takes another breath, considering how to word his dilemma. Old friends they may be, but he had kept his cannibalism only known as _human_ cannibalism thus far. He wasn’t about to change that. “Someone’s stalking me. I’m not sure how long, but they’re a fan of my radio station and have managed to track me from Niffty’s old house to the new one I just bought from you. And _on top_ of that, they’ve killed the person who killed Niffty before I could get to him _and_ left a note for me at the man’s house.”

“Stalking you?” She frowns a bit more heavily at that. “Stalking you how? Have you seen them? Have they talked to you?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, bringing his arms up. “I have anti-tracking charms on my person at all times, and I have _multiple_ scattered throughout the house as well. I’ve put out hints through my radio shows, but nothing that would _actually_ lead to me. But I keep receiving these little notes with no signature.” He exhales, letting his arms drop back against his sides as he steps forward and slips into one of the seats in front of Rosie’s desk.

She’s silent for a moment, frowning heavily, a hand tapping the surface of the desk. “..Notes? What do they say? Where do you find them?”

“I’ve gotten two, both appearing outside the front door of the house I’m in after a knock.” He trills his nails against the arm of his chair. “The first one was... something along the lines of _I’ve seen you weren’t on the radio recently, did something happen?_ The second, merely _Enjoy_.”

“...Enjoy...what?”

“Oh, it was attached to a box full of a particular kind of meat I happen to enjoy.” He rolls his eyes, giving her an annoyed look. “Like I said, _stalking_.”

“Hmm..” She sits back in her seat at that, sighing a touch, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “Ok, ok. So, you don’t know who they are. They somehow know where you live, and they’re a fan of your show. And you said you tried to find the man that put a bullet in your friend’s head?”

“Yes. And he was already dead, with the note _You’re welcome_ next to the body.” He taps at his cheek, trying to keep his legs from bouncing. “I just found it a few minutes ago. He was freshly killed, within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Wow..” She runs a hand over her face, humming a bit at that. “..Do you think this person is dangerous?”

“It’s hard to tell, though they seem to like me in some way.” He considers the house and how he’d found it earlier and feels the glow of his eyes brighten. “So long as it isn’t Lucifer being bored, I could handle them.”

“Heh. I don’t think any of us could handle Lucifer if he was bored, hun.” She chuckles a touch at that, almost weakly. The laughter dies off just as quickly, and she lowers her hand. “..Do you think you could handle them? Do you need anything? Like, extra security around the house? I could have extra locks installed.”

“No, I’ll be fine. As much as I appreciate a good lock, they’re practically useless when you meet the right demon.” He sighs, leaning back in his seat. “The only thing I’m worried about is losing my cool. I was seeing red just walking here.”

“I can imagine. If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that whoever this person is better hope that they don’t actually see you on the streets.” She chuckles a touch at that. “You _are_ going to kill this person, right?”

 _“Definitely.”_ His eyes narrow for a moment, glowing dangerously. He blinks and looks aside. “I’d go out hunting if I had more time.”

“I’m sure you would.” She lets out a bit of a sigh, going quiet for a moment. “..Anything I can do to help you calm down?”

He taps his chin, watching her. Most of the time, all he’d need to calm down is be in the presence of others, or kill a few people. But now.... He leans forward, putting his hands on the edge of her desk. “I think I need to complain. A lot.”

“I’m all ears.” She sarcastically tosses a pen onto the desk. “Not like I was doing anything.”

He chuckles at the show, dropping his head for a moment before sliding back. “I’d say that I hate taking you away from your work, but we both know that’d be a lie.” He shifts his chair closer to the desk. “So, to start, I’ve gotten a second job.”

That gets her to blink, and she stares for a moment before a grin lifts her lips a touch. “Have you now? Someone finally managed to rope you into a deal?”

“It’s not a....” He presses his lips together. “Okay, fine, it is a deal, but it’s one I’m fine with. And it was very much spur of the moment. Niffty went and got _herself_ stuck in a deal, so I had it transferred over to me.” He waves a hand as he explains.

“She did?” Alarm fills her gaze, quickly replaced by both relief and worry, and she shakes her head. “Oh, that poor thing. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s entirely fine.” He raises his hands placatingly. “She was a little shaken up, but not anymore. It’s just that she...” He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “She somehow found Sir Pentious first.”

“What?” Her eyes widen, and she stares for a moment. “Sir Pentious?! How in the world did she ever find _him_?!”

“I don’t know! The man is elusive enough. He’s like a ghost, just slithers onto the picture show and then disappears.” Alastor’s hands pop into the air and he laughs in disbelief. “I haven’t even thought to ask yet. She must be keeping some secrets of her own.”

“Oh God, I can only imagine what kind of scheme he had managed to rope her into.” She shakes her head with a sigh. After a moment she glances back up at him. “You said you _took_ the deal though? What was it?”

Alastor feels the sensation of the snake hissing ever so softly against his wrist. It’s tail tightens over his elbow.

“I’m not at liberty to say any specifics,” he says, rolling his eyes dramatically, “but I can tell you it’s nothing that would be difficult for me. The exact specifics have been skewed a little bit more for my skillset.”

“Are you sure?” She narrows her eyes, raising a brow. “We’re talking about Pentious here, Al. The man may be a theatric but he’s also cunning. He easily could’ve roped you into something without you knowing it.”

“As someone who’s spent the majority of my life tricking people into their ultimate demise, I’m fairly certain I’d be able to see someone doing it to me.” He narrows his eyes right back at her. “And if he asks more of me than I expect, I’ll simply say it to his face. I’ve been rather blunt with him so far and I’m still standing.”

“Hmmm..” She hums for a moment, but then sighs and shakes her head. “Fair enough. Any other big news? Besides working for a Victorian megalomaniac?”

“He’s an honest to God Victorian megalomaniac.” He rolls his eyes. “I know I have quite the ego, but everything he does is... levels above me.”

“I can only imagine, dear.” She shakes her head with a bit of a smirk. “I’ve only seen the man once, and frankly, once was enough. Heheh.”

“And I have to deal with him almost every day. Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on job performance, I suppose.” He grins widely. “I think he’s a bit nervous about having a serial killer of my stature on his staff.”

“Heheh. Anyone who has _you_ under their employment _should_ be as far as I’m concerned.” She lets out a bit of a giggle at that.

“And to think it’s my first job outside of self-employment since my days as a butcher.” He snickers a little himself.

“Heheh. Oh, I’d tell you to give him Hell, but I’m afraid he would probably kill you if you did that.” She smirks a touch at that.

“I can do it covertly. Just for you.” He pops his eyebrows in jest. He stretches his arms and pops his elbows. “Speaking of covert, I think Valentino and Vox are entering a partnership. And they seem to have an interest in my radio broadcast.”

The grin falls from her lips, and she can’t help but stare for a moment. Then she finally pulls out a drawer from her desk and begins to rifle through it. “Oh, I _knew_ it! I absolutely _knew_ it! I knew that there was something going on with their forces! The back alley deals, the sudden explosion of Valentino’s commercials on the television! It all adds up!”

“Vox has some of his own little gangs as well. Not as well kept as Valentino’s.”

“Oh, I knew that! What I didn’t know was that they were working together!” She waves a hand frantically, before sitting back with a huff, rubbing her hands over her face. “Guh...This could be bad. This could be very bad. Vox is already gaining more and more traction in the media. Getting his claws into everything in the network.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to drop the story in the next few days, get ahead of television, and become front page news for the second week in a row.” He tilts his head and smirks devilishly. “They’re going to _really_ hate that.”

“Oh lord.” She groans behind her hands, fingers moving so one socket could peek out. “Are you _sure_ that’s a good idea? You’re already on Valentino’s hitlist, dear.”

“I’ve _been_ on his hitlist, actually.” Alastor chuckles at the look on her face. “Anyone and everyone in media hates me because I am a one man industry.”

“And he’s already tried to kill you before. Do you really want him to want to kill you _even more?”_

“I could care less about what he wants to do, especially since I don’t think he _can_.”

“Alastor, dear, this is an Overlord, we’re talking about.” She frowns at that, letting her hands drop. “This is serious.”

“And I _am_ serious.” He raises his brows. “I know exactly what his Hellish powers are and I am entirely prepared to look him right in the eyes and laugh.”

“Hmmm...If you say so.” She sighs, softly, shaking her head. “If you die, I’m kicking your corpse’s face in.”

“If I die, I surely hope you do.” He tries for a wider smile.

“Charming. Anything else you want to mention?”

“Hmm...” He looks off to the side. “I’m doing another segment on Sir Pentious tomorrow as a follow up, completely unrelated to my employment, of course.” 

She raises a brow at that, looking rather unconvinced, frowning. “Uh-huh...”

“I’ve had several days of coverage slated since my last big break.” He clicks his tongue and laughs quietly. “By the laws of radio broadcasting, I cannot change that.”

“So you’re deciding to do that by shouting praises to your new boss?”

“The media cycle hasn’t even ended on his last raid!” He leans forward again. “He’s gotten demons without wings _flying_ without the use of a plane or bulky materials, _and_ they’re precise enough to get a man straight through a window at close to twenty miles per hour. That’s _twice_ the speed of the first automobile and at least four times as accurate. And that isn’t even getting into the _laser blast_ he sent into the buildings and streets. From his personal aircraft.”

“Shouting praises to your new boss.” She flashes a grin to show its all in jest, shaking her head. “I have seen the reports, though. Mostly of that massive crater that he left smack dab in the middle of the SouthEast.” She grimaces at that.

“It looked beautiful from where I was.” He merely grins. “I’ve been meaning to do some more reading on his history, to be honest. Figure out some of his earlier technologies.”

“Hmm...” She narrows her eyes a touch, and she winds up standing from her desk, folding her arms. “I think I might have a few books in my library, but..” She grimaces a touch. “They’re more like historical fiction. Barely any facts and the ones that are, well, they’re twisted so much that they’re all practically fantasy anyway.”

Alastor shifts to watch her, though he doesn’t look surprised. “To be expected of the world’s first supervillain.”

“Well, come on, then. If you want to praise your new employer to the high heavens, you’ll need to find the books. I have a good amount in my library; most of them are utter junk, so I’ll have to help you find the good ones.” She walks around the desk and toward the door. 

"You're really letting me into your library?" Alastor raises a brow at that, not following for a moment before hopping out of his chair, grin splitting across his face in excitement. "Does this mean I have privileges again?"

“If you can promise that you don’t make me _take them away_ again.” She turns her head a touch to give him a glare. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten what happened last time.”

"It won't ever happen again, I promise." He clasps his hands in front of him. "Maybe."

“It better not.” She sighs as she makes her way down the hall, shaking her head. “Those fires took forever to finally put out.” 

"Oh, you know how my fire gets when I'm bored." He follows her closely, skipping to walk beside her. "It's quite the emotional thing, you know."

“Doesn’t change the fact that there were at least 10 bodies afterwards, dear.” She presses the button to the elevator and steps into it as the doors open. “The smell of burnt flesh is supremely hard to get out of the nose, I hope you’re aware.”

"I quite like the smell, thank you very much." He giggles, stepping in after her. "Though I do think some of them were quite burnt."

“Did you _ever_ apologize to the Baroness for ruining her wedding day? Or her husband?”

"Ah...." He tilts his head back, recalling an excellent dinner and no apology. "I don't know. The time is rather fuzzy for me."

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She sighs and shakes her head as the elevator doors close behind them. “You’re lucky I consider you my friend, you know. If it were anyone else, I’m sure their head would be above her fireplace at this point.”

"Again, _if_ she could manage it." He holds his finger up. "I'm used to being underestimated, but I'm starting to feel a bit hurt at this point."

“Al, honey, sweetiepie.” She places a hand on his shoulder, patting it thrice. “I mean this with complete sincerity and no insult on your part. _You’re delusional if you think you can take on anyone that I rub elbows with._ You may be stronger than you look, true, but honestly, at times, you act like these _aren’t_ ancient demons with powers that can kill hundreds with a snap of their fingers.” She pulls her hand away, giving him a serious glare. “Even I could do it. I could snap my fingers and turn this whole building into a smoking ruin. Could turn the whole _center_ of the city into a smoking ruin. You get what I’m saying, right? Right?”

"Are you talking regular fire or Hellfire? Because one of those doesn't burn me." His smile sharpens and widens by the factor of her glare.

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sometimes I think you pray for death, my dear.”

"Oh, that'd be punishing death, dearie." He raises a brow at her, chuckling.

“Whatever you say, you crazy smiling goofball.” A smirk finally lifts up her lips, even if it’s a bit of a bitter one, the elevator letting out a ding as it reaches it’s destination.

Alastor has to hold in an excited giggle as the doors opens, revealing a massive, well lit, mahogany shelved library spanning every inch of the floor in front of him. He takes a few large steps forward, giddy, like a child at Christmas, and forces himself to halt and wait for Rosie. So many shelves. He'd have to take a whole hour to count them all, he imagined. Intricate engravings, a nice, warm carpet trailing along the ground, the smell of coffee somewhere nearby. Ugh. He hadn't had caffeine since he woke up. Maybe that would pull him together. But all the _books._ He could see a little alcove set up for atlases and other massive texts half the size of his body. He wonders if there are any new books on magic sigils. Or how to shake off stalkers. Or the most recent best selling jazz albums of the year. Or _records_ from this past year. Sometimes libraries had records, right?

“Have you _really_ been _that_ eager to get a look at my library? You look like you’re about ready to explode there.” Rosie can’t help but chuckle a touch as she makes her way past him, waving a hand to make sure he follows. “I have a few tables deeper in that you can sit at while I find the books. The organizing system I have is quite orderly and I want to _keep it_ that way.”

"Yes, ma'am." He trots alongside her, taking in all the decorations and decidedly keeping his hands behind his back. "I simply cannot stand any of the libraries down here after being spoiled by yours. Everything is so much more nice here. And you don't get fakes as often."

“Hmm. There are _other_ libraries in Hell? Could’ve fooled me.” She scoffs a touch at that. “Honestly, it’s such a waste. Think of all the dead famous authors that ended up down here. So many books that they still write, so many novels and chapters lost to time up above, all of them written and made _right here_ in the afterlife, and yet no one stops to think about it. No one stops to realize just how bountiful of a treasure trove Hell can be for such things. Instead, what do they do? Blow them up for the sake of wanting to be a rip off of that asshole Ceaser.”

"It'd be hilarious if a ship set on fire caused a massive library to burn to the ground in this day and age." The thought makes his smile bright and a small amount of static to play through his voice. "It'd be something for the ages most definitely."

“Hmph. I suppose so.” She scowls a touch harder at that, shaking her head. She moves to point a finger ahead of her, toward the view of a massive window showing off a high view of the center’s streets. “The tables are over there. Go and find a place to sit while I try and find those books. There will be plenty of them, I’m sure.”

"Of course." Alastor grins wider, though if it's out of genuine mirth or a playful tease on her frown its hard to tell. "Take your time. I'm in no rush." He hops forward, humming lightly as he heads to find a seat.

She merely gives off a subtle hum, turning to dip behind one of the many shelves of books that surround them. The tables themselves were surprisingly ornate, lined with leather dyed black, pinned in place by large golden gemstones that line the sides of the furniture, the chairs decorated with soft fuschia pillows that made for excellent cushioning. He takes a moment to choose a table, even though they all look identical, picking the one closest to the window just so he could take a few glances outside to let his eyes roam over the City below. If he looked hard enough, he swore he could see the smoke clouds from the fire, just barely peeking out from the almost endless sea of buildings. He can’t help but smirk at the thought, bitterly. Hopefully that little display of fireworks would be enough to keep this stalker of his at bay for a little bit longer.

A small sense of pressure begins to build up in his temples, for only a moment. 

_Alastor? Alastor, can you hear me? Are you there? Considering you’re now in the Pentagram’s Center, I assume your little murder mission was a sssuccess?_

He lets out a soft sigh, rolling his eyes though he knew Pentious couldn't see him. Strange that he could track him, but not so strange given the snake on his wrist. He'd consider it the hole in his defenses if the first letter hadn't come before the deal. He trills his claws on the table.

_I found the house, but no demon. So no, not a success._

_Are you saying he escaped?_

_Given certain evidence, I believe someone killed him before I got there._ His eyes narrow on the smoke billowing from the northeast. It didn't seem to be slowing down anytime soon. _So I've burnt the house down instead. It's the least I could do to send a message to someone who steals my kill._

_I see. How odd. Do you have any idea who could’ve wanted to kill him? I doubt that girl could even do much as hurt a fly, so I doubt that it was her._

_Hmm. I'm uncertain._ He trills his fingers again, forcing himself to look away from the window as static rumbles through his throat.

_I see. It’s probably for the best anyway. Right now, there’s something more important I want to discuss with you. Ideally, I wanted you to see me in person, but this method is just as discreet so it works just fine. Listen up, though. I mean it. This is very important._

_I'd say you have five minutes until Rosie comes back and starts pestering me again._ He looks back to the aisles, seeing nothing but hearing her mumbling in annoyance about the higher shelves. _I'm a good actor, but she knows me rather well._

_Then I’ll try to be as straight to the point as possible. Charlie Magne, the Princess of Hell and daughter of Lucifer, is looking for you._

Air whistles through his teeth as his grin stretches, brows shooting up under his bangs and claws digging ever so slightly into the wood below him. He quickly smoothes his hand over the marks and takes a breath. _Charlie_ was looking for him, not Lucifer. Strange, but... better than the other way around. He hopes his static doesn't translate through the connection.

_How do you know this?_

_I just so happened to find her talking to Nora within the West Side Library, two little guardian constructs in tow. I know she was looking for you because she used your name, and was looking around in an effort to find out your human name._

Alastor's eyes narrow, questions already forming. She was looking into his _past_? Strange. Maybe she was trying to figure out his habits. And if she was asking Nora for help... he could care less what Pentious had found or heard in those discussions, but he could tell Nora was already worried about him.

_Did she mention any reason for such... research? I've never met her before, and I've kept away from high profile kills for almost half a year now._

_She mentioned a “friend” of hers that somehow knew you. A friend that told her about you and how dangerous you are. She said that this friend wanted to remain anonymous so she never gave us his name. She also said that she’s considering informing her_ father _about you._ Pentious’s voice dips a little lower at that. _You can see how this is troublesome for the both of us, yes?_

He forces an inhale, holds it, and exhales. Yes, that is the exact opposite of what he'd want. There's a reason he's been largely anonymous in Hell these past few decades. _...You said 'he'._

_Indeed. Why? Do you think you know who this person could be?_

Rosie finally emerges from the shelves, a whole pile of books held in her arms, at least 10, balancing the few upper books beneath her chin to make sure they don’t fall. She carefully makes her way over to the table where Alastor was sitting at, and sighs with a touch of relief as she places them back down. “Good Gods, those are heavy.” She sits down in front of him, waving an idle hand towards the stack. “I made sure to keep far away from any actual historical fiction novels and only selected biographies. You’re welcome.”

"Oh, thank you, my dear." He flashes his teeth at her and turns the spines toward him for a moment, humming as he glances over a few of the older ones he had read while alive. " _Tyrant of Terror, Evils of the Sky..."_ He tilts his head and moves the top four books to another pile, examining the cover of a book titled _An Examination of The Villain's Youth._

 _I'll have to think about it._ Alastor furrows his brows and flips the book open, trying to be cognizant of Rosie's gaze. _There was a man who ran into me while I was ill last week. Ran into Niffty, more like..._

_Hmm. I see. Who was this man, exactly?_

Rosie moves to pull another book off of the stack, grimacing a touch. “Guh. These titles are just awful. _The Serpent of the World?_ What does that even mean?”

"Probably a reference to the Ouroboros or Jormungandr, referring to the idea of eternity and wholeness and the grasp he had on the world for however long he was in the air." He flips open his book and flips through a few pages. _Angel Dust, I believe was his name._

_Angel Dust...Hmm...Any idea of who he’s affiliated with?_

“Hmm. Still a bit odd. He wasn’t even a snake back then, so why make a reference to it?”

"Because he used the name Sir Pentious while alive." He flips through more pages, glancing at her as she shifts the books around. _He wore Valentino's colors._

“Hmm. Well, these things are still utter rubbish.” She picks one up labeled _Doom Of Mankind_ , flips through the pages, and sets it aside. “Ugh. Let me look back through the shelf. Find something that’s at _least_ a little bit more accurate.” She stands from her chair and proceeds to dip back into the shelves. 

_Valentino? Hmm...She said she went to the Moonlight Blitz. That’s Valentino’s most popular casino._

Alastor can't help but wrinkle his nose at the idea of 'Valentino's most popular casino.' He doesn't say anything to Rosie as she wanders off. _He was clearly a prostitute. I wouldn't be surprised if he worked there._

 _Geh._ Pentious sounds like he’s similarly disgusted at the thought. _Well, at the very least, he knows your identity, considering what you just told me, so he’s the most likely candidate. What worries me is why he decided to tell Miss Magne about you at all, much less how dangerous you are. If she finally decides to actually tell Lucifer about you...There could be dire consequences for the both of us. I’m not exactly keen on having him find out my operations underground._

 _At the least, she's researching me and not you. So long as we keep things discreet, there's no reason for her to assume I'm working for you._ He looks over the books in front of him and sets down the one in his hands. Maybe.... assuming she knows about his broadcasts.... maybe it really _isn't_ a good idea to broadcast news about Pentious at the moment.

 _Already ahead of you, actually._ A bit of smugness drips into his voice at that. _I may have fed the princess a little white lie about you being an unknown maniac running around my territory who tore out a soldier’s throat. She said that she’s willing to keep quiet about you to her father for now, and she’s agreed to inform me and Nora of any possible information that she can find. Meaning that we can know everything she knows and make sure we stay one step ahead._

 _Hm. Even if she agreed to that, I doubt she'd tell you everything. Unless she's stupid_ . He trills his fingers on the table again, looking out the window. _Lucifer and Lilith would never let their daughter be so easily tricked into showing all her cards to one of the more notorious Overlords in all of Hell._

 _Oh, I’m aware of that. Hence why Nora will do more of the talking. She’s an old friend of Lucifer, after all. Much easier to convince the princess to trust us both that way. Besides, it’s clear that the Princess is keeping secrets because she doesn’t want her father to know. She doesn’t want to risk her personal freedom for the sake of solving a mystery because she knows if she did, she’d wind up locked away for another 100 years._ His voice begins to creep with a soft hiss, malicious, calm, and utterly conniving in every meaning of the word. Alastor can just _picture_ the smile he’s growing and the way his hair is probably flaring up into that massive hood. _The princess would rather sneak around by herself and keep secrets then risk being trapped once more by her overprotective father. And I’m more than glad to aid in keeping those secrets shut tight._

 _I can only imagine…_ He picks up another title he doesn't recall reading and flips through it, finding a few photos of where Pentious had dropped his bombs. The craters look puny in comparison to what he can achieve today. _I could always try talking to her. This could all be the cause of a lack of communication._

 _Hmph. I wouldn’t risk it. We don’t know why she’s going after you. Sure, we know that she apparently learned your name from a_ prostitute, _but that doesn’t mean she can’t want your head on a silver platter._

 _From what I've heard from others, she isn't exactly the type to lash out so wildly. And if you, say,_ catch _me and tell her you have me.... You'd be able to figure out more about what she wants. If she says she wants me to pay or something similar, I could merely escape. I'm quite good at that._ It was the most obvious idea to come to him. It made sense as well. Then again, he'd always been the type to communicate before calling something a lost cause. And he'd rather talk than hide as well. Hm. Maybe he could trade the Pentious headline with one on Charlie? Or would that be worse?

_Hmm...Perhaps. I want to wait a little while longer. See what she’s able to find out by herself, what she can uncover. If needed, should we determine her intentions to be malicious, we could even set up a diversion to throw her off track or keep her guessing. I’d rather know what she plans and utilize it to my best effect rather than expose you right away. The aim of the game is surprise, Alastor. It’s all about the advantage of surprise._

Boy, did he know that. _Fair enough._ He looks up at the bookcases, his leg bobbing as the feeling of boredom starts settling in his conscience.

 _Glad to hear you understand._ Pentious’s voice sounds a bit more smug again, and there was the sound of a chuckle. _Trust me, the advantage that this could give us will benefit us both in the long run. If I know anything about Hell, it’s that chaos always strikes at the most_ opportune _of times._

 _Of course._ He fidgets in his seat and finally stands up, moving to the nearest bookcase. _What are you looking forward to in the news this week?_

There was a slight pause, as if Pentious wasn’t expecting such a question. _What exactly do you mean?_

 _The news. What are you looking forward to hearing? Topics, headlines. What do you expect, not expect...?_ The bookshelf is full of baking books.

 _Hmm..._ There was another slight pause. _I’m not quite sure. Why do you ask? Is there something that you’re looking forward to hearing?_

_I need ideas to push for the news. I may need to shuffle my morning schedule._

_I see. Want me to leave you be while you figure such a thing out?_

_If there isn't anything else you need to tell me._

_Hmm...Meet me in my office tomorrow, before you meet with Loralai for your first assignment. I’d rather discuss further details with you in person._

_Will do!_

_Good. I bid you good day._

The pressure returns to Alastor’s temples, and he can feel the snake against his skin shift ever so slightly, as if it was trying to adjust its grip or get itself more comfortable. Rosie’s head peeps back around the shelf, and this time she has a bit of a grin on her face. “I found something I believe you’re going to like.”

Alastor glances over at her, halfway to pulling out a book on Australian confections. "Oh, really? And what's that?"

She begins to walk toward him at that, holding the book out for him to see. It appeared to be bound in rather finely made leather, black in hue, with a gold trimming lining the spine, in the style of miniature king cobra figures with their hoods spread open and their fangs splayed outwards. The title of the book also appeared to be colored gold, displayed in intricate cursive letters: _The Accurate Account of the Life of the Man Known as Sir Pentious. Written by KC._ Rosie places it down on the table as soon as she reaches it, moving to sit in front of him. “That one is quite the rare one, I will admit. About only a few dozen copies were released, and from what I can remember, a good chunk of those ended up being burned and destroyed. Can’t blame them for that one though.” Her lips turn down in a slight grimace. “It was written by King Cobra.”

Alastor goes still at the combination of black and gold and cobras, then moves away from his shelf, letting the cookbook he had been holding fall out of the shelf behind him. He sits down in his seat, glad that his shirt sleeves cover his wrist, and picks up the book with an almost reverent gentleness. Not that he couldn’t be gentle with a book, but.... He flips to the copyright page. 1904. “This is dated only nine years before he died. I did research on this man in the twenties, and never _once_ did I hear anything about him _writing_ a book!” He looks back at the front page, bringing a finger close to the signature. “That is his signature, though...”

“Well, of course no one ever knew he wrote a book, dear. The man was a radical cultist who practically spearheaded mass riots all across the globe; the only reason the books ever got copied was because he forced the publishers to do so at gunpoint or brainwashed them into becoming his lackeys.” Rosie grimaces a touch more at the obvious delight Alastor was taking, and sighs. “I’d be careful, is all I’m saying. Sure, the book is accurate, arguably the _most_ I have in my possession, but I wouldn’t take it at face value. Fanaticism is often just as dangerous as twisting the truth, especially in books.”

"Actually, the publishing company stood by his work as a means of spreading certain progressive views, and was torched to the grounds by the local townspeople within a week of the first round of publishing, despite the fact that they denounced some of the more radical segments on mass murder." He looks up from the book to see her grimace. "I don't care about what the man says about how great Sir Pentious was, or even the death toll or number of inventions he made. King Cobra was also known for talking extensively about certain mechanical designs of Sir Pentious's, some of which scientists and mechanists in the 1910s _did_ manage to recreate. If there are discussions on mechanical blueprints in this-" He puts a hand on top of the book. "-a book published in _1903_ , then it proves Pentious as the true inventor of dozens of machines we currently take for granted. Cross referenced with _other_ texts, it might prove a global conspiracy theory against the man, but hey!" He laughs, shaking his head. "That's too much for one person to go through in a lifetime, isn't it?"

Rosie’s eyes widen a touch at that, and she frowns, looking both shocked and confused. “You certainly know a lot, that’s for damn sure.” She glances back at the book again, then sighs and rests a cheek in her hand. “Well, don’t let me stop you, at any rate. If you want to read the words of some dead madman that’s probably down here in Hell, then go ahead.”

" _I_ will be reading the words of the most accurate dead man who more than likely knew Pentious in person." He points the book at her. "It might do you good to read a copy yourself, but!" Alastor pulls the book to his chest. "This one is mine to check out. And thank you, I did a fortieth year anniversary broadcast because no one else in New Orleans wanted to do it."

“And how well did that turn out for you, hm?” She tilts her head, a bit of a smirk reaching her lips.

"Someone threw a brick in my window and the cops turned their eyes away from me long enough to kill three more people." He bats his eyelashes. "Poor old vet has his life threatened, goes into a panic attack, all because he was doing his job. Among other things."

“Heheheh. Of course, you poor innocent soul.” She rolls her eyes at that, playfully, then sits back in her chair. “Well, if you’re so eager to get reading, don’t wait on my account. Just remember you gotta return it in two weeks.” Her grin sharpens at that. “And I don’t think I need to tell you about what will happen if the book comes back damaged, do I?”

Alastor all but hugs the book to his chest, leaning back with his own smile widening. "I wouldn't even _dream_ of letting this little darling anywhere near something that could stain, tear, or burn it."

Her eyes narrow, as if trying to see through any potential deceit, then slowly leans back in her seat yet again with a sigh. “I’m holding you to that promise. You know how many murders I had to pull off to get a fresh remastered copy all the way from the living world?”

“Oh, I can only imagine.” He looks at the cover again and stands. “Do you think it's overkill to fit this in a fake Devil’s Bible? You know, for the walk over to my house.”

“If you truly think there’d be someone out on the streets who’d want to _steal_ a _book_ , much less a book of my personal library, give them my number so they can get a job organizing all of this.” She waves a hand toward the rows and rows of shelves, chuckling a touch.

Alastor chuckles, tucking the book under his arm. “I’ll be sure to tell them. Oh!” He raises a finger, eyes widening. “Would you by any chance have a record or two from a certain Frank Sinatra? I have a source that tells me I should look into the man’s work.”

“Frank Sinatra, hm?” She raises a brow at that, but then stands up and chuckles, pushing her seat back against the table. “Surprised you haven’t heard his work already. He’s pretty well known for jazz covers, not to mention his own songs.”

“I can be picky about my jazz covers, admittedly.” He grins almost apologetically. “And I’ve been under the impression he’s a bit more new age, moving away from jazz. But I could be wrong.”

“You’re definitely wrong in a few cases, yes.” She chuckles a touch, starting to walk away from the table, gesturing with a wave of the hand to follow. “We’ll need to go down to the public sector, but yeah, I’ve got a few records of his.”

“Of course.” Alastor bounds to her side and habitually threads his arm through hers. “Apologies for my sour mood earlier. As we all know, _Into each life some rain must fall.”_ He beams at her with a small chuckle.

“Heheh.” That gets a bit more of a grin to grow on her face, and she lets out a chuckle as well. “Of course, of course. It’s no worry. What are friends for, after all, then to discuss such idle subjects such as tracking down a man who took your kill and how you’re going to start kissing the rump of your new snake kingpin boss.”

“Eugh, I am _not_.” He makes a face and playfully elbows her. “And don’t shout it out loud that I’m working for him. I’m keeping that under wraps for now.”

“Oh, no worries, no worries, I’m not. It would ruin the surprise for everyone else, and you know how I am about that.” She flashes a toothy grin, pressing a button to call the elevator yet again.

•••

Niffty can’t help but let out a sigh as she makes the final adjustments to the bedsheets, giving them at least one more tug to make sure they were tucked into the mattress as snugly as possible, before pulling the covers overtop them, taking a moment to fluff out the pillow before placing it back against the headboard. She glances over the covers, taking a moment to pick at a ball of indiscriminate fuzz that was clinging to the fabric before flicking it away, folding her arms as she turns to examine the room. “Ok, ok...I got the bed all nice and fixed up..” She points toward an immaculate shelf where lines of medical bottles were stored, hidden behind a clear pane of glass. “Got my stocks all nice and sorted..” She points to a table that was on the far end of the room, covered in white sheets and decorated with fresh surgical tools, complete with even an overhead desk lamp for light. “Surgery table all set up..” She taps her lip for a moment, eyes narrowed towards the floor, trying to remember if she was forgetting anything, before the suspicion faded from her mind and she lets out another soft sigh, clasping her hands together. “Ok, ok. I’m set. Now I just...” Her hands spread apart as she gives herself an idle shrug. “have to wait for someone to collapse on the street in front of my house. Or..in front of a different house, even. Any house, really. As long as I find them before they die, I mean. Well, I’ll still take them in even if they _are_ dead...That’s still gonna take some getting used to, I guess.”

She finally walks out of the room and into the hallway, taking a moment to glance at the clock along the wall (styled in the shape of the Emporium with Rosie’s hands being the clock’s hands, oddly enough) and saw that it was at least 6 in the afternoon. Usually that was around the time Alastor got home. She purses her lips for a moment, humming, wondering if she should make something for them to eat when he got back. They certainly couldn’t eat pizza the entire time they were down here, considering it was effectively forever, and she couldn’t quite think of the last time she had a good warm meal instead of a burger. She lets herself consider it for a few moments before finally letting out another hum and closes the door to the guest room behind her, making her way down the stairs. “Welp, might as well use that whole chicken I found in the fridge. That Rosie lady really knows how to stock a fridge right.” She finds herself grinning at the thought of making a nice meal out of that bird. She hadn’t done spatchcocking in a while, and that sounded really appealing. Probably could make some good chicken stock too.

Right as she makes it down the stairs, the door opens, Alastor humming and tucking his keys away with one hand, holding a modestly sized bag with Rosie’s face on the side in his other. His eyes widen a touch as he sees her, grin widening and showing off those ridiculously large, ridiculously sharp teeth. He isn’t covered in blood, which is better than yesterday, but a few splotches of darker red stain his vest and the cuffs of his shirt. When his ears perk, the right one doesn’t move as much.

“Ah, hello there, Niffty! Just the gal I wanted to see. I have a bit of a surprise for you.” He elbows the door closed and moves into the living room, humming again.

She can’t help but pause as soon as she notices the blood, spots the splotches, and though his cheery disposition was enough to make it _feel_ as if nothing was wrong, she couldn’t help but still feel a bit of unease start to squirm it’s way into her stomach, making it tighten just a touch. She tries her best to grin, deciding that it was probably best to push it out of her mind for now; she knew she had a tendency to be a bit...overprotective when it came to patients, and she didn’t exactly want to annoy Alastor with constantly fussing over every single drop of blood she saw. She glances at the bag he was carrying, saw that it was that of the Emporium, and makes her way over towards the couch. “Hey, Al. How did the day go? Did anything happen? I heard that you’re started your first work day today?” She tries to not glance at the spots of blood on his clothes as she says that, moving to hop up onto the couch.

“Yup! Easy day, meeting the crew and whatnot. We went to a speakeasy to talk over drinks. Hardly _work_ .” He waves his hand and chuckles, reaching into his bag. He pauses, looking up at her, and raises a brow, grin softening ever so slightly. “Mind closing your eyes for a moment? I couldn’t get it wrapped, but I still want it to be _somewhat_ of a surprise.”

“Huh?” She glances at the bag, then realizes that it was a _present_ and moves to hold her hands over her eye as she closes it. “Yeah, right. You got it. Eyes are closed. Er, well, _eye_. Singular.”

“Right, of course, pardon me.” He pulls something out of the bag and sits down beside her, close enough their elbows are touching, and waits a moment just for suspense. “Okay, you can look now.”

As she opens her eye, she immediately sees a person’s face, a familiar one. Frank Sinatra in his classic suit and tie and bowler hat, winking and crooking a finger out at the camera. _Come Dance With Me!_ is written on the side of him. Alastor shifts his hands and reveals two more records behind it, both Frank Sinatra: _Come Swing With Me!_ and _Sinatra’s Swinging Session._

“I’m still working on that record player, but I can play it through my radio for now.” Alastor offers them to her. “They’re genuine records from Earth. As recent as 1961.”

For a moment, Niffty is speechless, staring down at the records and their covers, taking a moment to process what exactly she was seeing. Then a grin slowly overtakes her entire face, and she feels her heart practically soar, slowly moving to take one of them, holding it up in the air to look it over. “I..Oh my _God_ , you actually found them. You find some of Sinatra’s records! I..I didn’t think you’d _actually_..” She feels her heart practically bursting within her chest, feels her voice wobble a touch, and she briefly places the record down to rub at her eye with a fist, trying to chase away the urge to cry. “I..You’re amazing, you know that? I-I know that’s probably weird to say since we barely know each other, but..” She fights back a sniffle. “..This means a lot to me, I hope you know.”

“It’s a good rule of thumb to take music seriously. Especially someone’s favorites!” He chuckles and carefully maneuvers an arm around her shoulders. “In all honesty, it’s the least I can do. I’m not the _easiest_ person to share a house with, after all.”

“Heheh. I-I don’t know enough to disprove that statement or not.” She fights back another sniffle and she wipes at her eye again. “It’s just..Sorry, these just..reminded me of my dad is all. I...I haven’t seen him since..you know.” She waves a hand in front of her face. “Dead.”

"Ah, I see." His brows knit together. "Apologies. I didn't mean to bring up those kinds of memories."

“No, no.” She wipes at her eye again, blinking a few times to make the tears go away, still smiling. “This is a happy cry, don’t worry.” She glances up at him after a moment, looking unsure but still grinning. “Uh..I know you don’t like being touched but is it ok if I give you a hug? Just a quick one? I just...I don’t have any other idea on how to thank you. Besides cooking a chicken. Heh.”

"A chicken would be fine, but, yes, you may hug me." Alastor chuckles, opening his arms for her. "And you don't need to thank me for thanking you. It'll only start a never ending cycle of pleasantries, and let me tell you, you won't win."

“Hehe. Oh, shut up, you big dork.” She leans in to wrap her arms around him, trying her best to not squeeze too tight, chin resting atop her shoulder. She lets her eye close for a moment, feeling her smile only grow, only to open them, catching sight of a small, shallow cut, lining the side of Alastor’s neck. By the look of it, the actual cut was still fresh, crusted over, a few strands of hair ensnared in the process, while the actual skin surrounding the cut looked to be swelling, turned pink with irritation. She feels her smile fall away entirely, and her gaze flicks to the spots lining the collar of his shirt. “...Al? You’re bleeding.”

"Oh? Am I?" He shifts to look at her, hands pulling away from her back. "Must not be very deep. I can't even feel it."

“It’s, uh, right here.” She lifts a hand to gingerly tap the side of his neck with a finger. “Do you mind if I take a look at it? It, uh, looks a bit inflamed and I want to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

"Of course, my dear." He tilts his head and pulls his hair to the side for her, a few of the strands easily pulling out of the wound while a few others tug a bit. "Oh, there it is. Hmm. I would have thought it'd have healed over by now."

“Yeah..” She squints at it for a moment, before she moves to place the records off to the side, hopping off of the couch. “Gimme a second. Just gonna grab a few things.” She quickly runs up the stairs, and after a few moments of muffled footsteps from the ceiling, she quickly runs back down with a handful of a few items. She lays them out on the table, revealing them to be a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bandage, a fabric cloth, and a pair of tweezers. She quickly uncaps the bottle, pressing the cloth to the lip as she flips the bottle over, letting it soak for a second before flipping it back over again. She hops back up onto the couch, squints at the wound again, before lifting the cloth up. “This may sting a bit.” She presses the cloth to the cut and starts to rub it back and forth, methodically rubbing away the crust and grime of the dried blood.

"Hmm." He doesn't show any outward signs of pain, doesn't wince once, and holds still for her as she dabs around the wound. "Hopefully this doesn't become a habit of ours."

“I think we can both agree on that. Gotta at least hand it to the West side; _they_ actually realize just how important actual medicine is.” She gestures to the equipment with a thumb. “Turns out there’s a whole bunch of small pharmacies and places that sell medical equipment around here. Guarded by Pentious’s soldiers, I think. I’m assuming they were a part of his crew, considering they had guns and all.” She rubs a bit harder at the wound, carefully, watching as the crusted blood is washed away, the strands of hair still caught being released, only to have more blood start to trickle out, and she hums. “Hmm...What exactly _happened_ at that speakeasy that you went to?”

"Ah." He hesitates just long enough he knows he'll have to tell the truth. "Well, I... may have had to start a bar fight. Some of Valentino's men apparently frequent the joint as well."

She stares for a moment, her eye narrowed in what appears to be both aggravation and thinly veiled disappointment, before she just sighs and shakes her head. “Of course they do. They’re god damn everywhere, aren’t they?” She glances back to the cut, rubbing just a touch harder, watching as blood slowly seeps from the opening, before holding out a hand. “Pass me the tweezers.”

He barely has to lean forward with his long arms, and he hands her the tweezers before saying anything. "I've only very rarely seen Valentino's men in a speakeasy. Most of the bars put restrictions on them to keep bar fights from happening."

“And you decided to start a bar fight with them, why?” She narrows her eye at the cut, before slowly bringing her tweezers toward the wound. She brings up her other hand to rest her forefinger and thumb just above and below the cut, slowly moving to stretch the cut open, only for her to wince. “Ooh. I think you got glass in here.”

"That would explain why it didn't heal." He glances at her. "Do you want the easy answer, or the more involved one?"

“The more involved one. Try to hold still. Gotta try to find where the glass is.” She carefully moves to clamp the tweezers down on the wound, then after a moment, she lets go, slowly poking around the cut with the tongs. “Hmmm...” She narrows her eye, only to clamp down the tweezers again, tensing as the metal meets a hard surface. “Oh. Got it.” She adjusts her grip on the tweezers, slowly starting to pull the glass out, revealing it to be green in hue, slightly bloodied, visibly jagged, but thankfully not cracked. She manages to drag it all the way out, then holds the shard in front of his face. “Hold out your hand.”

He brings his hand under the tweezers and watches the bloody glass drop into his hand. "Okay. Well. In interviewing with Pentious, I had to tell him about my issues with any of the gangs. I told him about what's been going on, and, apparently, he told the crew I'm working with. They didn't like hearing about a mob going after a doctor merely doing her job, so they offered to help me find the man who killed you just the other day."

She freezes at that, just as the tweezers rest against the wound on his neck, which was still bleeding. She doesn’t move for a moment, and because of the angle of his neck, he can’t see her face, and he feels a soft prickle of apprehension well up in his chest. He opens his mouth just before she begins to start poking around the cut again, and another sting of pain makes it clear that she found another glass piece. She drops it into his hand, this chunk a touch smaller than the other one, and she says nothing.

He stays silent for a moment, still expecting a response of some sort, before exhaling and realizing the removal of another piece of glass _was_ her response. He didn't know how to take it. "I'm usually not the vengeful type, but I thought it a decent trade."

“..Trade for what?” Her voice was quiet, curt, almost bitter. Yet another piece of glass falls into his hand, and it was then that she drew away, reaching toward the bottle to re-soak the cloth, her head kept downwards, her gaze turned away. It was clear she was trying to not look at him.

He watches her for a moment. "...An eye for an eye, a murder for a murder. It's the only thing the mobs will understand."

“...I don’t want you killing people for me, Al.” Some of the bitterness falls away from her voice, and she moves to grab the bandage as she turns to press the cloth back against the cut, starting to gently scrub the wound again. “I don’t care if that’s what the mobs will understand, killing people is...I-It’s not something I just want to happen on a whim. I know I can’t make it stop completely, that’s not what I’m saying. I just don’t want suffering and murder to happen to anyone just because it happened to someone else first. I’m a doctor, Al. A nurse. In _Hell_. People won’t like it, and that’s just what I have to live with.”

"I...." He tries to look at her face again, but can't see her from this angle. Doesn't want murder to happen on a whim. That's going to be a sticking point. And a deadly thought to cling onto, even a year or two into Hell. Can't make it stop _completely_. If he wasn't holding glass and being treated for minor wounds, he'd clench his fist. Best to rip the bandage off quickly, and sooner rather than later. "Niffty, I'm a serial killer."

There was a long, long pause, and Niffty doesn’t move. The cloth is still pressed to his neck, the sting of the rubbing alcohol still sizzling against the wound, but she doesn’t move.

"That's... why I'm in Hell, among other things." He exhales again, wanting to pull her hand away if only to look her in the eye. "If you want me out of this house, then I will leave. But if that's what you really think about murder, especially the temporary kind here in Hell, then you should know who you're sharing a house with." He couldn't tell if he's angry or merely disappointed. "I won't stop killing people, but I also won't kill you. I don't kill people I know."

She still doesn’t move, if only for a moment. Then, finally, she pulls away, tossing the cloth back onto the table, before undoing the wrapper around the bandaid, carefully placing it against his neck, rubbing it over to squash any air bubbles. Her hands are trembling. “..If...If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve left that bullet in my skull.” Her voice is soft, quiet, and trembling ever so slightly.

"...I don't mean to scare you, but if you continue along this line of work, you will be helping murderers like me make it another day. You will be helping people who may very well have enemies for very logical reasons. I understand your want to protect and heal others, but you can't push yourself away from the rest of Hell by doing proper work. You're only engraining yourself further."

“You don’t know that.” She hops down from the couch, crossing her arms, shoulders hunched. Her voice was sharp, curt once more. “I helped you, didn’t I? I helped save your life. Pulled the god damn bullets out of your stomach, and you were a murderer. I knew there was something wrong with you. I knew something wasn’t right. But I helped you _anyway_ .” She turns to stare at him, her eye narrowed in a glare, though tears well up around the edges. “I helped you get back on your feet despite the fact you tried to _bite_ me and you were surrounded by corpses that were torn to pieces. You think I didn’t realize there were bits of flesh stuck in your teeth? Think I wouldn’t notice how your mouth was covered in blood? Well, I did. I knew. And I still _fucking_ helped you.” 

She wipes at her eye with a fist, sniffling, her voice growing louder. “And I’m going to _keep_ helping people. I’m going to keep helping people because I have nothing else left. Not my dad, not my mom, not my job, not even my fucking _life_ . What else can I do? Become some mob boss lackey who shoots people in the head? Become some _serial killer_ who thinks murdering people just to _get back at them_ is ok?” Her hands curl into fists, and her eye starts to slowly glow red. “I have nothing else, Alastor. Everything was taken away from me. I’m alone, and I don’t have anything else, and God forbid I try to hold onto what I can.”

"Okay, ouch." Alastor leans back a little at the look, his free hand moving over his chest and smile not falling away in the slightest. "I kill for more reasons than revenge, as I was saying earlier. And I'm not telling you to stop helping people. I'm merely asking you to look at the politics of it. _I_ am on Valentino's watchlist, and you helped me entirely selflessly. But in doing so, _you've_ made it onto his watchlist. I've been alone for the last twenty years _at least_ simply avoiding something like that happening. Because now _I_ owe you a favor, whether you like it or not. And I can't simply leave because I know you'll get further onto his radar by helping people, so I'm sticking around to keep you safe because you kept me safe." He stands and walks over to a trashcan near the entrance to the kitchen, shaking the glass out of his palm. "Furthermore, I've been trying to stay out of _Vox's_ little TV screen for years now, and apparently his men are after me now as well. And they're after you, too! And he's - he's - guh." He rubs his face. "Vox can hypothetically see through any television set in Hell, possibly any electronic with a visual device attached. He can hear through phonelines and microphones and who knows what else. And he knows both of our faces now." He looks at her, tired. "All I am asking is for you to think a little more before helping people because it's a lot more complicated than them simply getting better."

She’s silent for a moment after that, looking away eye staring down toward the floor, arms folded, shoulders tight. It was clear that she still had something to say, something to protest against, but still she remains quiet. Then, finally, she sighs, and her shoulders relax, slowly. “...I’m a nurse, Al. I’m not supposed to _be_ political. I’m supposed to help people no matter what.” There was another pause, and she slowly rubs a hand down her face, eye closed. “...And this sort of thing is exactly why I had taken that deal with Pentious in the first place, but, hey!” Her hands spread out as she shrugs, a bitter grin forming on her lips. “That got taken away too!” There was another pause, and she sighs, finally turning to face him again. “S-Sorry, sorry. I...I just...I guess I’m just tired, and I don’t know how to handle all of this. So much has happened over such little time, and it’s a lot more than I ever expected.”

Alastor is still smiling when she turns to look at him, still smiling as she apologizes and explains what doesn't need to be explained. "Hell is a lot to take in, my dear. As are the people in it. There's no fault in that."

“..Right, yeah..” She nods, softly, sighing again. “..I don’t want you to leave, just so you know. I..I can’t do that to you. Not after you basically lost your old home and went through all that trouble to get a new one for me. Just..” She looks away, takes a deep breath, then finally moves to stare at him, her gaze firm. She moves to walk up to him, then raises a hand toward him. “Just promise me one thing. Promise me that you will absolutely never kill people in this house.”

He blinks at her, glancing between her eye and her hand. "Is this... a deal you're proposing?"

“...I guess it is.” She doesn’t break her gaze from his own, mouth pulled down into a small, but stern frown.

He presses his lips together and brings a finger to her wrist. "Then we need to be specific. What do you mean by kill, and what do you expect of me if someone breaks into the house?"

Her gaze finally breaks to flick toward his claw as it rests upon her wrist, and she’s silent for a moment. “..Don’t..Whatever you do to people when you kill them. Stalk them, poison them, drag them in here to dissect them or chop up their bodies, you can’t do that in this house. You can’t kill people in this house if the intent is merely for... f-for _pleasure_.” The words sound as if it stings upon her tongue. “If people are breaking in, if they try to kill you or me, then...by all means. Do what you have to do. But I don’t want this place to turn into a murder den, ok?”

He nods and considers it, then nods again and takes her hand. "I won't kill anyone in this house or turn this house into a _murder den,_ unless the situation is deemed dangerous enough that I must kill the offender."

Her eye flicks back up towards his gaze at that, and she stares again for a moment, before giving his hand a soft squeeze, and shaking it firmly. “Deal.”

"Deal." He nods, watching the small spark of orange circle their hands. Small, but something.

After a moment, Niffty pulls her hand away with another sigh, a deeper one, and she looks away. “..If you want to..be left alone, for a little, I get it.” She moves to collect the medical supplies that are still on the coffee table. “...I’ll probably end up making some chicken for dinner, just so you know.”

"No, no, I don't simply walk away after difficult conversations." He grins softly. "If you want to be left alone, I'll go upstairs for the time being. But I'm also more than willing to help with dinner. I know my way around a pot or two."

Slowly, a grin starts to lift up her lips, ever so slightly. “..Do you know how to spatchcock a chicken?”

"Spatchcock?" Confusion filters into his grin and he tilts his head. "Not familiar with the term. Sounds British."

“Close! It’s actually Irish.” Her grin brightens a touch, a bit of a pep seeming to come back into her step, walking toward the kitchen. “You’ll love it, I swear. My dad used to cook chicken that way all the time and it was absolute _perfection_. Plus, it means we can pluck out all the bones and use them to make stock.”

"Ooh, freshly made stock _is_ fantastic. Have you ever made filling that way?" He follows her, shoulders relaxing.

“Filling using chicken stock? No, I don’t think I have. How does that even work?” She moves to open up the fridge, standing on her tip-toes as she moves to pull the chicken, still bagged, out from it’s shelf, grunting slightly as she does so. She’s quick to set it down on the countertop, before moving to open up a lower cabinet, rifling through it to pull out a metal sheet.

"Add it in at the very end to keep everything moist. Lets the flavor soak into the sausage and breading. Mwah!" He gives a chef's kiss and pulls out a few spices from the upper cabinet. "Any spices you want to use? Pepper and salt, of course. Paprika, garlic powder, onion powder?"

“Hmm...Some onion powder. Garlic would probably blend in a bit too much with the pepper. Don’t want them to mix together and end up blocking out the salt.” She moves the chicken onto the sheet, then moves to drag a chair over to the countertop, climbing atop it to start undoing the wrapping to the chicken. “Can you hand me a knife? One of the big ones.”

Alastor looks over the selection of knives and pulls out the second largest knife. "Ah, you're a salt person. I can appreciate that. I like things extra spicy." He hands her the blade handle first and gives her a wide grin.

“I can only imagine.” She slides the chicken out of the wrapper entirely, slowly turning the bird towards her, so that it’s opening was facing away from her, gripping the knife carefully as she rests the blade against the skin. “Ok, you wanna know how you spatchcock a chicken? You gotta watch closely.” She begins to make careful incisions along the flesh of the bird, her eye narrowed in concentration. “The key is to removing the backbone first...so you can basically expose the bird on both sides..” She places the knife down on the sheet just as she sets the backbone aside on top of the wrapping, grabbing the bird and flipping it over, bracing her hands against the part of the body where there still was a notable curve. “Then you just gotta...Gotta..” She grunts a bit as she forces her hands to press down harder and harder, before there was a notably loud _crack_ as the curve of the chicken’s interior caves inward, leaving the whole of the bird to be practically flat against the sheet. “Ah! There we go!”

"Ooh, that's satisfying." He leans over her to watch, a respectable distance between them, his grin spreading at the cracking noises. "I don't work with chicken all too much, but I feel like I _may_ have seen someone do that by taking out the sternum. You probably keep more chicken this way."

“Oh yeah.” She moves to pull a piece of a paper towel off a roll that was set up on a rack, and gently dabs at the outside of the chicken, then flipping it over to dab at the inside as well. “Ok, there.” She turns to glance at him. “Want to do the seasoning?”

"Ooh, danger." He grins. "With pleasure. How much spice do you like? I'll make sure to hold back."

“Not too much that will cause me to start crying or anything. I can handle a little spice, but definitely much less than whatever you can take, I’m sure.” She hops down from the chair and drags it to the side to make room. “What should be made with the chicken? As a side, I mean?”

"Hmm... I'm honestly rather partial to potatoes, but I'm not sure if we have any. Open to suggestions, of course." He cracks pepper over the chicken, shortly followed by salt, onion powder, and a dusting of paprika. He glances over his shoulder and grabs a bottle of olive oil, unscrewing the cap and covering the top with his thumb, coating the chicken.

“Hmm..” She opens the fridge and begins to scan through it, reaching in on occasion to push something aside. “I don’t see any potatoes....Do you think we have rice? Rice sometimes goes good with chicken, and if you know how to season it, it can actually be pretty good.”

"Ooh, rice is a good call." He starts rubbing the spices into the chicken, craning his neck around to look at the kitchen. "I think I saw a bag in one of the cabinets."

“On it.” She begins to walk her way around him, starting to rifle through various cabinets. “By the way, the chicken won’t take as long to roast since it’s being cooked from both sides rather than the outside-in. It’ll only take about 40 minutes, at best.”

"That is wonderful. I can't believe I've never done this before." He flips the chicken over and throws more of the spices inside, rubbing it in with more oil. "Oven, right? Not stove top?"

“Yup. Oven. I mean, you can sear it on a pan, if you want, but the oven makes for even roasting, you know?” She grunts as she pulls out a rather large looking rice back, hefting it up and over her head as she moves to plop it down against an empty space in the countertop. “Found it.” She moves to open up another cabinet to grab a rather large pot, walking over to the sink (which was clean and bereft of dishes) to fill it up with water.

"Good, good. Maybe pan sear at the end? Might crisp it up a bit more." He walks over to the oven. "What temperature? 365, 425?"

“450, actually.” She waits until the pot is sufficiently filled before slowly pulling it up and out of the sink, carefully making it over to the stovetop to place it down. “Got the pot of water ready.”

"Ah, nice and hot." He sets the oven and grabs a towel, wiping off his hands and the spice bottles. "Did you say your dad taught you to cook?"

“Oh, yeah.” Her grin brightens just at the mention of him, and she nods. “He taught me practically everything on how to cook. Had home-made meals almost every night. Of course there was always “Junk-Food Friday”. Heheh.” She chuckles a touch. “That’s when we’d go out to eat. Restaurants and all that.”

"That sounds nice." He grins at her, walking over with the salt shaker and dusting the water with salt. "My mother taught me. Entirely genuine Creole foods. Cook enough and you can invite the entire street for dinner. We did that on weekends, when we could."

“Creole?” She tilts her head a touch at that, raising a brow. “I never heard of that. What is that?”

"Oh, uh, it's a label used in the African disapora." He shrugs. "In simple terms, it means mixed race. My mother was Native American, father European. Lots of Creole people live in Louisiana. We even have our own sort of dialect of French."

“Ohhh.” She nods after a moment, propping her elbows up on the counter. “I..I dunno if I’m anything, to be honest. I think my dad was European, but I really dunno about my mom.”

"I'm guessing you only had your dad?" He tilts his head and leans against the stove, near the area not in use.

“..Yeah.” She nods after a moment, glancing downwards, her voice a bit more lacking in enthusiasm. “..She died when I was 5. Went into the war as a volunteer. A nurse. She left and...she never came back.”

"A nurse." He considers her own course of career, and his own past. "They never quite got the recognition they deserved in either of the wars. It's certainly one thing being on the front line, but they...." He exhales, shaking his head and laughing a bit. "Drill sergeant says jump, you jump. Nurse says jump, you leap a building or prepare for trouble. No fuss. I'd almost say I had a fear of them for a while."

“A fear of nurses?” She glances up toward him at that, a bit of a smirk on her face. “Why?”

"Whatever the average soldier sees, they see the outcome and they deal with it. And they don't pull punches when things are serious. They _will_ pin you down to set a broken limb, and they'll do it fast. No arguments allowed." He shakes his head and shivers. "Absolutely terrifying."

“Well, let’s hope you never get a broken limb then.” She chuckles a touch at that. “They taught us how to set those in school. And a bunch of other things, like tourniquets, stitchings, and so on.” She gives him a glance. “Did you know the teachers sometimes dissected dead cadavers to teach us about human anatomy?”

"Teachers? In academic settings?" He raises a brow. "Dissecting frogs and pig fetuses isn't enough anymore?"

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “People just donated their dead bodies to be dissected so classes could see what real organs look like and where they are in the body.” She snickers a touch. “The boys were the ones that always fainted. There’s _always_ a fainter. Especially if the teacher decided to go and scoop out the eyeball.”

"How _strange_." His brows knit together as he thinks about it. The oven beeps and he moves over to slide the chicken inside. "Donating your body for dissection and education. What do they do with the body afterwards? Burn it? Return it to the family? No..."

“Uhh...” She pauses for a moment, tilting her head. “Last time I checked, the bodies are burned in crematoriums, and, if the families or friends want the ashes, they get sent the ashes in urns.”

"I suppose that makes sense. I've heard cremations are happening more often these days." He walks back over to her, listening to the pot start to bubble a little.

“Yup, from what I can tell.” She shrugs a touch, then seems to go quiet. “...Do you think you got buried? I mean...” She glances off to the side. “..Since you’re a...”

"Oh, yes." He tilts his head back. "I kept up to date on newspapers that would make their way into Hell. It took a while for people to actually search my house for evidence. By the time anyone found anything, all of New Orleans had either visited my grave or gotten up into arms over my death. If I remember correctly..." He taps his chin. "The graveyard with my body had to redo my grave and my mother's several years in a row due to defacements. I was buried beside her, of course. My father was buried in a completely different cemetery."

“Oh..” She goes quiet for a moment before a grin, a lopsided one, begins to grow over her face. “That sounds nice. You being buried next to your mom, I mean. I mean, it’s not like it matters, since you’re not _in_ your body anymore but..” She slowly trails off, looking away.

"It's something I'm happy about, certainly." He grins at her. "I could care less about the defacements. Well, I was rather angry about my mother's for a time. But the gravestones are hardly important in the end."

“..I guess not.” She goes quiet again, for a moment, her eye facing away, narrowed a touch, arms slowly folding. She didn’t look sad or scared or anything notably alarming, but there was just something there that felt _off_ . “..Do you think they bury criminals? Give them a tombstone and everything? I heard that when Hitler died, they didn’t mark his grave with anything. They just torched his body outside the bunker he hid in before it was demolished by the Russians. And as far as I can tell, they just left it there. And he was arguably the most evil person that’s ever lived. So what does that mean for criminals? What happens when _they_ die? Killers, pick-pockets, drug smugglers, rapists...What happens to _them_ after their bodies go cold?”

"Well..." He rubs his chin. "I'd say it depends on notoriety, what the person did, and why. Typical criminals, outside of war, end up buried. I suppose occupation matters as well. Servicemen are given passes despite charges. Even Al Capone got buried in Mount Carmel, alongside Chicago's first bishop and archbishop. No one messes with Christian burial rites."

“Even murderers?” She can’t help but glance at him at that. “I mean..They buried you because they didn’t know who you were.”

"And when people tried to dig up my body, the state intervened to keep me six feet under." He shrugs. "Grave robbing is a serious offense. And even murderers have family."

“..Right.” She looks away at that, nodding softly. “Yeah. I guess they do.”

Alastor watches her, a soft look on his face. "One of the most important things I learned in life is that blood doesn't guarantee family. Which means you have a lot more people looking out for you than you expect." He walks across the room to rifle through a drawer, pulling out a timer and twisting the dial. "The rice is overboiling."

“Huh?” She glances up to see that the pot of water was getting dangerously close to foaming over, and quickly moves to slide it away from the flames. “Shit!”

•••

"Oh, that was _good_." Alastor sits back in one corner of the sofa, head dropping against cushions in satisfaction after the meal. They even had leftovers. He can't recall the last time he ate and left food behind. Niffty hadn't been shy either. "I don't think I can cook chicken the same ever again. Flattening them works much better."

“Hehehe. I told you. Once you spatchcock a chicken, you _never_ go back.” Niffty herself was on the other end of the couch next to him, giggling at him. She had a pile of pink and gold yarn next to her on the floor and was in the process of threading them through a pair of knitting needles. “My dad used to do that to turkeys, and let me tell you, thanksgiving was one of my favorite holidays because of that.“

"We used to put three pounds of butter under the skin and cook it stuffed with onions, garlic, and who knows what else. Have you ever baked ham in soda pop?" He opens an eye to squint at her.

“I...absolutely have not, but that turkey sounds _amazing_.” She chuckles, laughter lacing her words. “Have you ever deep fried a steak?”

"Yes, actually. It's delicious but will give you a heart attack." He stifles a small yawn and reaches for his bag from earlier, rifling through it to produce a small book.

“Dad got the bright idea to do it after he heard the Spenders bragging about how “good” they could deep fry their chicken. He always had amazing cooking skills.” She chuckles a touch at the memory, then spots the book. “Oh, did you buy that at the Emporium?”

"Technically, it's a library loan. Rosie has quite the collection, and I've been meaning to do some light reading." Alastor flips it open, crossing one leg over the other and glancing through the table of contents.

“Well, let me know if it’s any good. I’ve been itching to get my hands on a good book for a while now.” She chuckles, but goes quiet, slowly starting to knit, the faint clicking of the needles filling most of the silence.

"Mm, I think it'll be plenty interesting. It's about Sir Pentious's life on Earth." He flips a few pages to the introductions.

_Author’s Note_

_Chapter 1: Early Life (pre and post accident)_

_Chapter 2: Early Adulthood_

_Chapter 3: Life of Crime_

_Chapter 4: America_

_Chapter 5: Rise to Tyranny_

_Chapter 6: Fall from Grace_

_Chapter 7: His Impact On The World (And Why It Should Not Be Dismissed)_

_Author’s Epilogue_

"Hmm..." He (thinks) he knows most of Pentious's end. His death is rather famous, after all. Shot down while on his airship. Classic in hero/villain cartoons. Those first few chapters, though... hmm. That could be useful. He turns the page to reveal the Author’s Note, written in clean ink strokes. 

_If you are reading this, then you either have come into this book’s possession by choice or with hostile intent. You may plan to read this book in its entirety, or you plan to burn it to ashes so that it may never see the light of day. If you do the latter, I only look upon you with either pity or contempt. Pity that you will never breakout from the mold that society has put you in, and that you are sadly happy to stay within it, or contempt due to the fact that you may have actively participated in the events that have resulted in the deaths of millions all over the world, all the while having the audacity to incinerate these pages and claim the man within them is the_ true _monster all because he saw through your deceits. For the pitiful, I hope that the time comes when you wake up. For the contemptible, I hope there comes a day where you find yourself on the other end of a lit match, and the fires come to devour your piggish screams for mercy._

_But for those who come to read with open minds, for those with maddening curiosity, for those who seek the truth and recognize the mad ravings of a blind society, welcome. I hope this book is able to provide all of what you’re looking for. As for how you feel by the end, well, that is not up to me. It never was._

"Oh my God. Did he write this by hand?" Alastor brings the page closer to his face, then remembers how old the text is and puts it to a respectable distance. "Huh. He knew the books would be burned.... I wonder if he stockpiles a few and hid them before releasing to the public." He flips to the next page.

_Chapter 1: Early Life (Pre-Accident)_

_Richard Brooks was born on 1840, January 5th, to Mrs. Agatha Brooks and Mr. Jeremy Brooks, and also had a sister named Adeline Brooks, who was at least 2 years older than him. They lived on 432 Oak Street within the small dock city of Dirvington, one that resides just on the coast of English Channel. Both Agatha and Jeremy themselves worked within a textile factory by the name of_ Ricket’s Wares _and, as was customary, both Richard and Adeline grew to work there as well, at the ages of 12 and 14, respectively. Richard was described to be that of a bright and active child, one with a quick mind and an even quicker affinity for mechanics, suggesting that his skills for such was a natural gift that had always been with him since the day he was born._

_An Excerpt From Adeline Brooks (dated 1902):_

_“Our childhood was practically the same as any other...No, not practically._ Exactly. _It was exactly the same as any other child who had grown up Dirvington. We got up, we went to work with Mother and Father, we spent the days around the machines and doing our jobs to earn our pay. And the rest of the day after that was ours to do as we please. Sometimes we’d grab what change we stashed into our pockets and head to the local sweet shop to get candy. Richard always had a fondness for chocolate, and, well, I preferred bitter sweets, much to his utter dismay. Sometimes we’d go off running and getting into trouble with the other kids in our block, tearing through the streets like those packs of piranha fish with the big teeth. Other times, we’d sit at home, and commit to our hobbies. I would draw, and he would read books. Did you know he loved mystery novels? Used to read them, all the time. Would carry them into work to sneak peeks when he was on his break or when the boss wasn’t looking. There wasn’t any sort of Sherlock Holmes when we were kids but...I’m sure he would’ve loved them.”_

“Now that’s intriguing.” Alastor reaches inside his vest and pulls out a small notepad and pen, flipping it open to jot down a few notes. “This man actually found his sister. Difficult task.” He moves a finger under the title of the textile factory, wondering if he could find more information on it, or if it was too obscure. There had been so many factories in England. And America. “Niffty, do you know much about Sir Pentious? His human life, I mean. He went by the same name for a time.” He jots another note down: _Likes mysteries - joke about radio persona?_

She looks up at that, the beginnings of some pink cloth with golden stripes sitting in her lap, still clutching her needles. “Uhh...I’m not entirely sure. I knew he tried to conquer the world, and then got killed. I think he was actually in America at one point. There’s a place somewhere in PA that actually got attacked when he first started using his airship. It’s a tourist attraction now, I think.”

"York or... Stroudsburg? I seem to recall something about those places." He flips to the next page. "You might be interested in learning more about him. He was quite a bit more than just a conquerer."

“I’m sure he was. Is? I dunno.” She shrugs and shakes her head, starting to fiddle with her needles again. 

_During his childhood, Richard showed no signs of mental illness or pathological symptoms that would indicate of the atrocities to come, despite what many have claimed over the years. There was no sign of psychosis or hysteria, no hallucinations or an unhinged focus on reality, no visual cues that would indicate slowness in his mind. He had a healthy relationship with his sister, he played with the other kids he had lived with and had hobbies. It has been recorded and documented several times over that there were no sorts of mental diseases that are prone to fits of violence or aggression. The only form of mental oddities that could be found within actual recorded documents is that Richard, as stated before, possessed a highly keen mind towards that of mechanics and machines, which is only merely a sign of his intelligence and_ not _a sign of mental sickness._

_Rumors and superstition do not triumph facts._

_An Excerpt From Adeline Brooks (dated 1902):_

_“Richard and I would have to help out the house whenever the roof had sprung a leak. We would carry boxes of screws and bolts and all sorts of tiny metal parts all around the factory, in order to be delivered and distributed. To be honest, I still have small nightmares about that place. It was always so loud, so uncomfortable, with people shoving their way left and right, the machines clanking like bell’s next to your ears, and the air being stale and ripe with smog. Not only did you have to worry about your fingers getting sliced off from the threading machines, but you could never get the stench of grime out of your clothes, and your hands would always end up so worn that you’d be lucky if you didn’t end up with massive blisters. I hated every second of it, and don’t get me wrong, Richard did too. But there always was a time when he’d get some delight out of it, and that was when some of the mechanics would ask him to help them.”_

_“I think those mechanics had kids of their own or just had fondness for kids, because every time they did a routine check-up on all the equipment, Richard would be right at their heels, listening to them tell him which screw went to which driver head or what bolt could be tightened with what tool. I was never close enough to really listen in on everything they told him, but Richard certainly tried his best to explain the details when we’d finally go home. He was absolutely mad as hops about the whole thing. It was honestly a touch annoying sometimes, but...I never had the heart to tell him to be quiet.”_

Alastor snorts lightly at the comments on mental illness, though not out of derision. He had read a few of his own books, even the one his past psychologist had written to piggyback off his fame. Infamy. Same thing really. But everyone eventually falls to psychoanalytical gobbledygook. Excuses. He wonders if there are any biographies on Adeline. No one ever talks about her. “Would you believe me if I told you Pentious had a sister? He reads so much like an only child.”

Niffty looks up at that, blinking. “What? He did?”

“And he’s the younger sibling too.” He raises a brow at her.

 _“Really?”_ Her eye grows a bit wider at that, and she stops knitting. “Jeez, talk about the worst kind of brother to have. I mean, your little brother grows up to try and burn the world down? What do you even say to that?”

“Oh. Well, I would have joined him if it were me.” He chuckles, as if that were a joke. “He tended to target factories and slave owners, you know, when he was in his airship. Little known fact. Well, when he wasn’t making political threats and holding cities hostage to make a point.”

“Didn’t he threaten to obliterate all of London and New York?”

“Yup! That he did.”

“..Hmm. I don’t get it. If he was going after slave owners, why even threaten to target anything else? Why blow up entire cities?”

Alastor chuckles again. “That would be the question everyone wants the answer to, and only one person _really_ knows. As a murderer myself...” He flips forward a few pages in his book. “...the reporters always get it wrong.”

This particular page looked to be a bit more modern, possibly added into the remastered copy for the sake of flair or for trying to add density to the novel; several pictures, in black and white, a bit grainy along the edges with splotches where light bleached the surface, but still there all the same. One picture displayed a towering building, made of brick, looking to be at least several stories tall, corroded with spots of grime and vaguely cracked windows on the surface. There was a sign hanging from above a large hanger door, no doubt where the shipments came in and out, and the sign was displayed in faded dark letters: _Ricket’s Wares._ A small line of text beneath the photo reads: _Last known picture of Ricket’s Wares before it was destroyed in a massive fire that resulted in it’s collapse._

Below that one was another picture, this one clearly of that of a massive array of textile machines, gangly, with long towering limbs that stretched threading into the air, only to be wound right back in with huge gears mounted upon their chassis. Workers were stationed in front of them, clearly having been caught in a candid shot of busy work within the middle of the day. Another line of text beneath the picture read: _These are believed to be the same machines that both Richard and Adeline would’ve operated as children. These machines, likely many during the age of factories and industrial labor, were often incredibly dangerous to work with, and tales have been told of people losing fingers or even whole limbs._

“I suppose that saves me another trip to the library.” He turns the page to Niffty. “The first place he worked at. Twelve years old.”

She leans forward to get a glance at the page, then winces at the sight of the pictures. “Ooh, yeah. I’ve heard about those things. Nasty stuff. Almost as bad as them sending kids into mines and then dying from the soot getting into their lungs.”

“Yup. I can hardly imagine it.” He turns the book around again. “I think I wouldn’t mind blowing a building or two up if I had to go through that.”

_Chapter 1: Early Life (Post-Accident)_

_I should start off this particular part of the chapter by explicitly stating that history_ can _and often_ will _either lose information, be it deliberately in that the people within that time do their best to cover up the truth, or be it by accident, simply because the people who held that information were lost to death. I am here to tell you that this part of history is most certainly the former, and there is no use in trying to fight it. It is the absolute truth, no matter what the historians of the world may claim or deny. Don’t be fooled. Don’t give in to their lies._

 _On March 15th, 1854, Richard Brooks suffered a catastrophic injury while working within_ Ricket’s Wares _textile factory. The owner of the factory, Charles Ricket himself, had asked him to climb up to the upper balcony of the building in order to fix one of the many hanging spools that were strung up close to the ceiling, as it had grown loose and was in danger of falling. He had protested several times, claiming that the balcony itself was very unstable and that it could break, but Charles refused to listen, and after some pressuring from his father, Richard gave in._

_The balcony soon after gave way, and Richard plummeted from a 10 foot tall drop. The fall had him topple onto a cart of jagged metal that was being prepped to be scrapped, and the crash resulted in a broken leg, as well as several deep lacerations from where the metal had pierced the flesh of his back, one of which having cut so deep that it nearly severed a vital connection near his spinal cord._

_He was taken to a hospital shortly there-after, and was treated for blood loss, as well as the aforementioned broken limb. It was there that the doctors confirmed that his spine had been injured in the fall, and that his motor skills within his legs had been severely hindered as a result. Richard Brooks, for all intents and purposes, had become physically disabled._

Alastor’s pen taps against his notepad as he reads, taking mental notes on how King Cobra writes. He slowly stops, rereading a few lines. Of all the things he had known about Pentious’s life, he had never once heard that the man had been disabled. Though it did make sense with a few comments he had read in passing. And notes about “odd technical designs” on schematics that had never been publicized. Adjustable desk heights, elevators on all airships, even a few odd appliances he had slated for patenting before he died. He had gone through dozens of books and none of them had even the slightest mention of disability. Not that it’s anything new for the 18-1900s.

 _Richard Brooks remained recovering in the hospital for 2 weeks before he was sent home, with strict orders to remain in bedrest, for at least 3 months. The fall had rendered him both physically and mentally shaken, as was to be expected for a boy of such young age to survive such a gruesome fall, and while Richard was eventually able to transition from complete bedrest to being able to maneuver a wheel chair as well as walking with a cane, he would never fully recover the use of his legs. And while there have been many pictures and recorded sightings of Richard Brooks standing or walking, thus leading people to claim that such a fact was false, let it be known that Richard Brooks himself almost never allowed anyone to see him using a wheelchair at all, and for completely public sightings, would only resort to using the cane to walk. Just because he could walk does_ not _mean that he was_ faking _the disability, nor does it mean that it should be ignored._

“Ahead of the times.” He was starting to get more and more curious about King Cobra. If reliable information on Sir Pentious was difficult to come by, reliable information on King Cobra was doubly so. If he was simply a fanatic, it would make sense for him to be on Pentious’ side for everything, but the way he words it is as if he’s sparring with media outlets. Fighting for honor, of course, but also facts. He starts tapping his notepad again. Obsessions had always been his weakness, but he _could not_ afford to dive head first into an obsession regarding his _boss._ Especially not his boss’ _life on Earth._ But _how_ did King Cobra know Pentious? This was too personal to be someone who had simply been radicalized by watching his attacks.

_An Excerpt from Adeline Brooks (1902):_

_“I wasn’t there to witness him falling, and even now I honestly am thankful for such a fact. I don’t know I could’ve handled seeing him like that, bloody and screaming. I probably would’ve fainted on the spot. I was there to witness him come home, though. He had been carried in by our father, placed down in his room, in his bed, given water and his favorite book to read. You have to understand, our parents loved us, they truly did but..They didn’t know what to do. They had no idea how to handle something like this. So they merely..left us together in his bedroom. I asked him how he felt. If he needed anything. But he simply sat there, staring down at the blanket that was covering him. Staring down at his legs beneath the blanket, I’m sure.”_

_“After a moment, he finally lifted his head up, staring at me. His eyes were filled with tears. And he said, quietly: “Addy, promise me you will_ never _go to work in the factory again.” It was at that moment that I realized just how scared he was. Scared for himself. For me. He didn’t want me to end up like he did. He didn’t want me to become crippled too.”_

Or maybe the question is more along the lines of _How did King Cobra know Adeline?_ He jots down the question, even though the notes are meant for Pentious’ story. In order to be emotional about someone, you didn’t have to know them personally. You could know them tangentially, or through writing. Mailing letters between friends wasn’t entirely uncommon, but finding them would be impossible while in Hell. He catches himself biting his lip and flips forward, scanning for any mentions of inventions.

He catches sight of yet another modern looking page, this time with another black and white picture, though this one has quite a bit of text underneath. The picture itself appeared to be a much older Richard Brooks, looking to be at least in his 20’s, wearing a familiar suit and top hat, as well as holding a solid wooden cane in one hand. He had a surprisingly vibrant smile on his face, and he was holding his hand out in obvious display, most likely beckoning the proverbial audience to gaze at a large machine that was positioned atop a table. Said machine appeared to be clunky, archaic, a scrawl of what looked to be a messy attempt at wiring contained within a metallic chassis, though it stuck out in a few places. Another man was across from Richard, looking a bit less theatrical about the whole thing, but still gesturing to the unintelligible machine nonetheless.

_While there are many devices and machines that have secretly been traced to being designed and crafted by Richard’s own hands, none have been so important and yet, so woefully missed, as the shortwave radio. Richard, at the age of 25, managed to make contact with James Clerk Maxwell (a man most known in history as the discoverer of radio waves) in London, and had worked with him for a time to deliver a brand new invention to the scientists of England. Dubbed the “Transmitter” by both Richard and James, it was found to only be able to transmit a few key sounds, and only for an extremely short amount of distance. It was deemed as a failure by the scientific committee, and Richard soon broke off his partnership with James, leaving London as a result._

_Excerpt from Adeline Brooks (1902):_

_“I remember that day, yes. He had finally come home after being away on his own for at least 6 months, and when he did, he had stayed away from my house entirely. He had retired to his own home, and at first, I merely kept to myself. Didn’t want to smother him with any senseless fussing and the sort. But then after the third day of not hearing a word from him, I had finally went to see him myself. His shop was closed and his front door was locked, though I did have a key. When I found him, he was within his workshop, idly tinkering away on several watches. They had been pulled apart and left scattered to pieces all over the floor. He had faint dark circles under his eyes, and he was disturbingly quiet. I look back on that day with a fearful chill in my veins, knowing what I know now. All I could think to do at the time was ask him if he was alright. All he did was merely tip his head back toward the ceiling, and then whispered, softly.”_

_“Now I know what it’s like to truly have been scorned.”_

Alastor reads through the page without missing a beat, nodding a little at the name of James Clerk Maxwell (who didn’t know the name?) and humming at Adeline’s remembrance of Pentious’ words. He goes to write another note down, perhaps on the bitterness in Pentious’ words or the date of his first major step into the scientific field of study, before it hits him. His brows furrow and he looks at the date written onto the photograph of Pentious and Maxwell. 1866. Two years after Maxwell’s initial theories on electromagnetism, but almost a full decade before his more advanced work. Hertz proved electromagnetism in 1873, and it wasn’t until Guglielmo Marconi in the 1890s that a proper, working radio was made for long distances. But that would mean....

He drops his pen and snatches the book up in both hands, pulling the photograph close to his face. Plenty of wires, obviously. He could se a rudimentary amplifier, switches, maybe even a detector. It was wrong, so very, very wrong, but so very, _very_ close. “Uh....” Alastor shoves the book away from himself, trying to make sense of it from a distance, and all that results is a crackle of static buzzing through his throat. He keeps rereading the line _“none have been so important and yet, so woefully missed, as the shortwave radio,”_ but he can’t get past it. Well, he was glad to have evidence that King Cobra was a fan of radios, but to think that _Pentious_ could be the real inventor of the _radio?_ Almost _thirty years_ before anyone actually took the time to make them work? It was impossible! And yet, the photo.

“...Al? You ok, buddy?” Niffty was looking up at him now, a long trail of knitted fabric now on the floor from where she rested on the couch.

“I, uh....” More static spills from his lips and he lowers the book into his lap. He stares out into the living room for a moment. “I _think_ I asked the true inventor of the radio what his favorite tea shops are. And I berated his testing parameters.”

“...What?” She lowers her knitting needles now, staring at him with a confused, almost concerned look.

Alastor shakes his head, blinking and turning to Niffty, still shellshocked by the thoughts bouncing around in his head. “If this book is right, then Sir Pentious was one of the co-creators of the _first_ radio in 1866. But all my life I’ve been taught that the first radio wasn’t invented until the mid-1890s by Guglielmo Marconi, _maybe_ the 1880s if you count Hertz. Which means I’ve been living a _lie_ since 1914.”

She just blinks at him, as if the astounding implications of Pentious’s full absolute genius simply flew right over her head. “..And thaaaat’s.... _bad?”_

“Yes!” He waves his hands, and subsequently the book, though his thumb marks his page. “It means I have my history wrong, or that someone changed the history books, or that this photograph is forged despite it looking incredibly authentic. My entire career is based on the radio and I’ve been praising its forerunners for decades, but now it turns out they _weren’t_ the first ones to make a radio at all! Pentious was.” He goes silent for a moment, eyes widening, and slowly stands, walking around the coffee table and starting to pace. “But it all makes sense. His airships moved with too much precision to simply be manned by people who _knew_ the plans. They needed a form of communication that couldn’t be intercepted, and it wasn’t like they could use telegraphs. And since no one had radios at the time, and they weren’t even publicized until the 1890s, no one would have even _thought_ that Pentious was using them in the first place!”

“Didn’t he somehow manage to build 5 whole airships at one point?”

“Yes, and part of the reason no one knew how to stop him was because he and his crew were so precise in their movements. But if they all had radios....” He brings his hands to his cheeks, book tucked under an arm. “Lord Almighty, I have to look this man in the eyes tomorrow and _not_ ask for a signature. What am I even saying? I have to not _slap him_ for not telling me he made the first radio!”

“W-What? Al, don’t _slap_ your boss just because he didn’t know you have an obsession with radios! If that part of history was erased, it was probably because people didn’t want other people knowing that he did it!”

“Why would anyone want to suppress who created a radio? Much less - why would the _United States_ not co-opt the radio likely found within one of the remains of one of the airships and build upon it for military superiority? It - it would be like shooting yourself in the foot, especially when _two years later_ a man in England starts commercializing the exact same kind of product. It just doesn’t make any sense!” He rubs his face, grumbling behind his hands, and makes his way back to the couch. “But you’re right. He would have no control over the history others wrote.”

“They probably didn’t want to touch anything that he built because he was such a madman to everyone. The American public would’ve flipped the fuck out if the government had went anywhere _near_ any of his airships. It’s like if someone took one of the concentration camps and decided to convert it into a factory to build shoes; it would be an utter disgrace to everyone who died and would cause mass hysteria and riots.” She picks up her needles again at that, fiddling with them as she tightens a loose thread.

"I don't agree, but I can see your point. Maybe." He trills his fingers against the book. "1866." He shakes his head. "This man is ridiculous."

“..Why is _he_ ridiculous?” That gets her to pause again.

"The laws and physics behind electromagnetism wasn't even _proven_ until the 1880s, but the existence of a radio transmission being produced _before_ that means that Pentious, and Maxwell, had the means and knowledge to produce and radio waves without a solid base to build upon. Which means not only did they make the first radio, they were the first two people on the Earth with documented proof that they understood what electromagnetism is and how to manipulate it. And for twenty years, they were the only ones with proof. But they never got the proper credit because their radio didn't work as well as the scientific community wanted. It's... It's as if someone turned away Edison's light bulb because it needed to be replaced in too short a time." Alastor drops his head back. "It also means he's _genuinely_ a genius and not simply good at making destructive weaponry. He understands theories and concepts. Things that aren't concrete. He's willing to attempt to make science fiction into reality despite being told it’s impossible."

“..Did...Did you _not_ think he was a genius before?”

"No, of course he's a genius! He was an absolute prodigy of mechanical inventions. He thwarted every governmental attempt to stop his takeover until his death." His hands gesture theatrically with his words. "But being good at making things and directing people on murder doesn't make you smart about everything. I put together a radio when I was fourteen without understanding a lick of the sciences behind it. I can also bake a cake without understanding how yeast works. And I'd say it's the same in the case with making a radio from scratch, without any idea of what it's supposed to do or sound like, but you'd have to know what you're doing with electricity and all in order to even consider the idea." He rubs his face again. "I dunno. I guess I'm just a bit frazzled. I know he's a genius, but he made the most revolutionary technology thirty years before it was officially made. He is quite literally ahead of the curb by thirty years. It's insane."

“..Well, guess that explains why he’s an Overlord.” She shrugs a touch at that, then moves back to knitting. “Don’t try to go too crazy when you see him again tomorrow.”

"I'll try and keep the insanity to a minimum, yes." He chuckles and sits up, flipping open the book again.

He continues to flip through the pages, catching glances of different pictures with other kinds of inventions, often with Pentious posing right in front of them with the clear intent to advertise his inventions, though wether it was meant to be bought or meant to be exposed in front of scientists was hard to tell. With each passing picture, his overall demeanor seemed to slowly change, and slowly shift. His shoulders would sag little by little, his eyes would slowly lose their bright shine, and the smile became a bit more visibly strained. By the time the number 1866 rolled around, the pictures had stopped displaying Pentious altogether and the only thing was left was a singular bit of text across the page. 

_It is unknown precisely how many times Richard Brooks attempted to craft his own inventions, nor is it known how many times he attempted to invest in said inventions by showing them off to the more wealthy businessman and scientists of England. Given that any sort of blueprint or schematic that had his name on it was likely to have been stolen and destroyed in the event of his death (leading to any kind of paper written by the man to be exceedingly rare) the exact number will never be known. The approximate number, while heavily debated among historians, is described to be around 10 to 15 inventions, and every single one of them was eventually rejected by the scientific committee as a whole._

Rejection. Not uncommon among scientists and creative types. The number seems low to him, though. Unless they only counted the ones Pentious had officially brought to committee, in which case he could care less about the “official” number.

_Chapter 3: Life Of Crime_

_It is here that most of the recorded history when it comes to Richard Brooks becomes considerably harder to find, due to the fact that the man often hid out of sight and was rarely seen in the years before his debut as the would-be conqueror of the world. In order to gain the most accurate and sound of descriptions of what happened during those years, while also making sure that nothing is corrupted or stained with reckless fear-mongering, I have taken to collecting excerpts from none other than Aaron Burke, the one and only survivor of the former Nobleman group. Please do note that while Aaron’s opinion of Richard and how he describes him is as a result of him being a firsthand account of who Richard Brooks became, do not let yourself be deluded as well into this mindset of fear. Aaron Burke, as a member of that infamous group for the years that came, is just as responsible, just as guilty, and has a history of being quite the silver-tongued. Do not let him deceive you. He is not without sin._

_Excerpt from Aaron Burke (dated 1902):_

_“Our group was a small one, you see, before he came along. It was nothing more than a small group of people who had lost their jobs, their professions, and were left to pick-pocket and rob and steal whatever they could get their hands on, just to be able to eat. I was lucky enough to still be able to have my own income, and I was able to provide them all with a place to stay. I had always looked upon the unionized with pity, and I felt that giving them a roof over their heads and aiding them in their goals was the least I could do. Darian Flynn had become our leader very quickly when the Noblemen first got started, and I didn’t doubt that decision; while he was quite the fireball of an Irish man, quick to anger and often just as loud as the crack of a gun, he also had a fierce sense of how horribly the working sort were being treated within the docks and factories, and sought to put a stop to it so people could live without worry of starvation or dying from the cold. He had that sort of tenacity and fierce determination that we all were sort of drawn towards, and soon we became just as eager as he was to topple the rich and spit in their faces. He had lost his job as a dock worker, you see; his boss had ordered an older gentleman to be beaten when the poor man refused to lift any more crates on account of his back, and Darian had responded by beating his boss instead._

_“Gunther Hersch had become Darian’s second hand, in that sense, I suppose. Out of all of us he probably had the most to lose; he wasn’t just a rough and tumble German, he also was a husband and father to two children, who had depended on his job as a restaurant waiter. You could tell right away that his days as a father had softened his heart and yet strengthened it all the same. He would trade jokes to us to make us laugh, he would sing songs when we were bored or tired, he would be the first to tend to any wounds if we happened to get shot. He was a gentle giant to us, to his family, and I suppose, in a way, we_ did _become his family. But make no mistake, Gunther was not a man to be trifled with. I’ve seen him lift another man over his head like he was little more than a rag doll before slamming him through a table. He was not opposed to shed blood, and he made sure that anyone we crossed knew it.”_

 _“Lily Golding and Christina Woods. Christina and Lily. Those two were absolutely inseparable, no doubts about that, and for good reason. It was no secret among any of the group that the two of them were in love, and while I personally found it to be a bit odd at first, Darian and Gunther didn’t seem to be perturbed by it in the least, which gave me insight enough to leave well enough alone. It was probably a good thing I did, in hindsight; those two, while_ seeming _to be nothing more church-bells bubbling around for the sake of dawdling, quickly became probably the most...skilled, in our group when it came to actually executing our plans. They were probably the most knowledgeable in our group when it came to how to properly handle firearms, how to shoot, and how to shoot and_ not miss. _They had a way of mentally strategizing that was practically uncanny from what I’ve witnessed. They either merely glanced at each other as if engaging in some hidden telepathy, or bounced suggestions off of each other with a speed and precision that I never quite seen in..anyone before. Remarkable, really. From what I can remember, they had both met within the depths of a seamstress’s workshop, worked side by side for years, and that eventually bloomed in a romance. A romance that, when found out, cost them their jobs. A sad thing, really.”_

Alastor scribbles down the names of the crew, recalling them vaguely from his research decades ago. He hadn’t heard about any romances, but it wouldn’t surprise him. He notes Aaron Burke as the lone survivor. It was well-known how the story ends. He didn’t want to mix up any names.

_“It happened on a Tuesday. September 7th, 1866. We had managed to land what we thought was a heavy blow on Dirvington’s business structure, having managed to sneak into the former docks where Darian had worked and put a bullet in between the eyes of his former boss. It was Darian who did that himself. I didn’t quite have the stomach to watch it happen. We were planning on setting the dock warehouse on fire, but somehow the police had been notified, and we had to flee. It was late at night, at least around 11, and the only place we could think to hide was a small watch maker’s shop that sat in a corner along Elmwood Avenue. We had entered the building as calmly as we could, single file, and that was the first time I ever laid my eyes on the man who had come to be known as Sir Pentious. He was a meager looking man, practically as thin as a reed, wearing a worker’s smock over a thin white button up and a pair of slacks. He was very pale, very weak-looking, and though he stood up straight just fine, he also held a cane in one hand, where it was pressed firmly against the ground. His eyes had dark circles beneath them, like he hadn’t slept in days, and his hair hung down farther than I had ever seen a man wear his hair, to the point where it was resting half-way down his back.”_

_“Darian, as calmly as possible, pulled out his gun from the interior of his coat, and pointed it at him. Richard, as to be expected, went stiff at the sight, and Darian made his demands carefully. He stated that all we wanted to do was use his house to lay low and hide from the police, and that if he cooperated, he wouldn’t be shot. There was a pause, a rather large one. And then the man did something I’ve never seen another man do. He started_ laughing. _To this day, the very memory of that laugh makes my blood chill.”_

Alastor raises a brow. He had always assumed Pentious to have sought them all out, rather than stumbling upon them by accident. He makes a note about him being held at gunpoint before continuing to read.

 _“We didn’t quite know what to do, when we heard him laugh. It was a loud laugh, a hard laugh, as if it somehow was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him. His head tipped back, his eyes squinted shut, and even back then, his laugh was still that very same cackle that would eventually terrify the whole of the entire world. Darian, completely stupefied, had no idea how to respond, which was probably the only thing that kept him from just shooting Pentious right then and there. Gods above and below, if I knew what I know now, I would’ve taken that gun from his hands and shot him myself. But I didn’t know. So when Pentious finally got his laughter under control, he had made sure to make it quite clear that he had no love for the police himself, and that he would be glad to offer us shelter without the need of any threats at all. He insisted that we step out of sight of the shop’s windows, that we hide deeper within, in his actual house, and we found ourselves so dumbfounded that we actually did as he asked. It was when we had entered his living quarters that we first spotted the wheelchair, sat right next to the sofa, and I’m sure each one of us had that moment of harrowing realization of how close we were to potentially murdering a crippled man. But Pentious barely even gave the damn thing a glance, so mad as hops that it looked like he could barely stay still, walking about and rambling about how much he despised the authority of the city, so much so that I actually began to suspect the idea of him_ faking _being crippled. It was Gunther who finally was able to get his rants under control, asking him if he was intending to help us with what we sought to do, with the things we were planning. We appreciated how willing he was to help, yes, but I don’t think any of us knew how to handle a_ cripple _wanting to join our ranks.”_

 _“It was then that Pentious finally spun around to face us all, cane still in hand, a rather wide, yet so very smug grin on his face. He splayed a hand to his chest, eyes narrowed, and with that very same voice that I hope I never have to hear again, he declared: “Gentlemen, I will do more than merely_ help! _I will_ give _you the opportunity to become the best in all of England!”_

Alastor can’t help but snort at that. Even back then, Pentious had been prideful, so sure of himself. Even when faced with a gun to the nose, he still managed to advertise himself. And laugh. Being able to laugh in such a situation is quite the skill to have. It must be difficult to get him flustered enough to _actually_ lose control. Good to keep in mind. 

_“It was then that he had lead us deeper into his house, into his personal study. I’m sure all of us were rather struck by such a confident statement, not only with how out of the blue it was, but also because we had no true way of knowing what exactly this strange man was offering us, or if it actually would help us at all. This was a man who had laughed while we pointed a gun at his face, and now all of a sudden he was offering up his services to us? We didn’t know what to think. But we were all curious as to what it was that this strange person was advertising. So we followed him, walked into his study, and saw what he had meant. Guns, so many guns, either propped up on shelves, completely whole and new, or scattered to complete pieces, like it had been methodically taken apart and had yet to be fully put back together. There were detailed sketches of firearms lining his desks, blueprints, with ink that had yet to dry on the surface. There was even what looked to be a half completed model of what looked to be a mere pistol, with a chamber that could hold up to at least 10 whole rounds within them. It was clear that this man had built this gun, and it was also clear that he was planning on building more.”_

_“I could tell by Darian’s eyes that he was quite intrigued. Quite interested. He was the first to finally turn to face Pentious after a moment, and he spoke quietly. “Are you offering to build us these fire arms, Mr...?” And he faltered, because none of us had actually asked this man what his name really was.”_

_“Again, Pentious flashed that smug grin, his eyes lighting up in what must have been eagerness at the sight of Darian considering his offer. “I’ll prefer to keep my name to myself, for now, gentlemen. After all, can’t risk myself being caught by the mutton shunters if any one of you ever gets arrested, now can I? I would hate to have them get their hands on any of my weapons, that’s for certain. For now, however, you may address me by a certain title of mine._ Sir Pentious.”

Alastor flips to the next page, scanning over a photograph of one of these pistols. It was sleek, finely made, but indistinct. He recalls seeing a recovered gun in one of the museums he had gone to as a child, but it had been much more personalized. He probably had to be much more careful while in England.

There also was a picture of what appeared to be a bullet, cut in half, it’s insides exposed. The inside appeared to be filled with regular gunpowder, but what was strange about it was the thin barrier between the gunpowder and what appeared to be two other layers, one that held a liquid, and one that held a piece of white powder within it. The text underneath reads as such: _This is one of the more inconspicuous weapons that Sir Pentious had managed to create while working for the Noblemen group. It is described to be that of a bullet, filled with not only a mixture of gunpowder but also that of sodium and water. It is said that when this particular bullet strikes a surface, the barrier between the gunpowder and sodium/water mixture snaps apart, and the chemical reaction causes a small explosion of fire to rupture from the bullet’s casing. Not only could this spell a gruesome end for anyone who happens to get shot directly, but it also could mean that buildings, carriages, or anything that could remotely be flammable may catch fire quite easily._

“Hm.” Alastor hasn’t gotten a gun from Pentious yet. He wonders if he still makes and hands out specialty bullets. He certainly hadn’t stopped being a fan of explosions.

The next page also featured a bullet that was cut in half, also featuring a thin casing within the metal, but instead of it being between the gunpowder and some kind of strange fluid, instead, said strange fluid was filled into small pockets of space within the bullet’s casing. _This type of bullet was also one of the prime weapons used by the Noblemen during their time spent in England, filled with gunpowder as well as hydrofluoric acid, which was designed to burst and/or seep out of the metal as soon as the bullet’s casing ruptures. Due to the acid’s nature being able to melt through all kinds of materials, including that of glass, wood, and flesh, it was most likely picked to be used due to it’s corrosive abilities as well as how cheap and common it was to obtain. Those that survived (if they did at all) suffered from tissue damage and bone loss, as well as chronic pain, for the rest of their lives._

Alastor writes down _Hydrofluoric acid - buy some for when bored._ He flips to the next page.

An array of pictures was displayed along the page, grainy, but not so much that the image couldn’t be made out. It was that of an array of buildings, as that of people, though the people within said photographs were visibly dead, with either white white sheets draped over their slumped forms, or were completely exposed, their skin melted away to expose whole bones, or were left completely unrecognizable, and were completely charred and turned into little more than blackened husks. The buildings themselves were damaged, walls stained with soot and blankets of ash where the fires had gutted the interiors and finally extinguished, or had walls completely fallen away from where the acid had melted away at the brick linings.

_The tyranny of Sir Pentious’s weapon’s terrorized the streets of Dirvington for at least 11 months, close to an entire year, and within a span of that time, at least 55 people were killed, either from being downed by the Noblemen crew themselves, or simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Noblemen would seek out their targets, striking mostly pockets of organized crime that were trying to snuff them out, as well as entire factories or docking stations that lined the coast, aiming to cripple the businesses that allowed the richer in the city to benefit off of the economy. The police conducted search after search, but none were able to come close to solving who was creating such strange and deadly weapons at the time, and it lead to the public growing more paranoid. People were terrified, and the legend of Sir Pentious was thriving._

_An Excerpt from Aaron Burke (dated 1902):_

_“I have no doubts in my mind that Sir Pentious relished in the chaos that he was creating back then. In how easily his weapons killed and all the damage they could make. He used to tell me that he would wake up every morning after a hit to go on walks around the places where we had fired those guns, those bullets, just to see the extent of all the damage they could do. He claimed that he was doing it for reconnaissance, that he was shifting the blame off of himself by surveying the crimes as a worried citizen, and of course the police wouldn’t suspect him on account of his limp. And of course they didn’t. They never once looked at him. Never once suspected. And I admit, I was worried even then. Even then, I could see a sort of maddening glimmer behind those eyes, those eyes that had the same silver hue as the very weapons he sought to create. I could tell he was dangerous. That he was a bomb, waiting to go off and get us all killed. But when that final blow was struck, when Pentious asked us to test his newest device on his old factory, Ricket’s Wares, I couldn’t think to do anything else. I couldn’t think to reject his request, for fear of one of those bullets finding it’s way into my very flesh. So, I obeyed. And those people paid the price for my cowardice.”_

_Ricket’s Wares, in 1867, burned down in a massive fire that resulted in the deaths of at least 30 people. Charles Ricket, Mr. Jeremy Brooks, and Mrs. Agatha Brooks were recorded among them._

Alastor raises a brow at the claims of “always” being able to see the dangerous gleam in Pentious’s eye, and fearing for his life on top of it. He doubts that anyone who had gone on to spend twenty years in the man’s inner ring wouldn’t have attempted to run away at some point along their travels. Or gone to the police in an attempt to lower the prison sentence or appease God in some way. Interesting that Pentious’s parents had conveniently died in the fire, though.

_“Thankfully, I was not the only one who’s reason was shaken by the sight of that building collapsing in an inferno of flames. Darian, after witnessing the warehouse burn down firsthand, just as we did, began to realize that Pentious was going too far. He had come to the same realization I was, I could see it in his eyes. But he had grown fond of Pentious, not only of the man himself but also the power those weapons gave, the privilege; there was arguably more money lining our pockets then that there ever had been in our entire lives. But I began to speak with him that night, in private, coerced him to see that the terror Pentious was spreading was never what we set out to achieve, and that the deaths of innocent people for the sake of ourselves was not a goal that we should strive for. I didn’t want to turn Pentious in. Neither of us did. So we did what we had to do, and the very next day, Darian went to Pentious’s home to officially close off their deal.”_

_“I wasn’t there to witness their altercation. I wasn’t there to see how Pentious first responded, but when he visited my home that night, I knew that it had gone poorly. I could see it. The rage in his eyes, the pure unfettered contempt and hatred that blazed within his body, it was enough to have my blood turn to ice within my veins. He stormed into my living room, ranting and raving, shaking with anger, and it became quite clear that he had no idea of my involvement in the scheme, that Darian hadn’t told him that I was the one to coerce him to his conclusion. And it was also clear, after Pentious had finally finished his ranting, that he had come to me to seek help, to go behind Darian’s back, to plan against him, to help convince the others that Darian was no longer needed. He was asking me, in a layman's terms, to mutiny.”_

“Hm. Interesting choice to make.” Alastor notes Darian and Aaron as early accomplices against Pentious, though he’s not sure if he’ll end up reporting on it. Depends on how he’ll write up his dialogue.

_“This time was again when my fear took ahold of me. Fear for myself. I could see the loathing within Pentious’s gaze, practically feel the wrath that was bubbling away in his body, and I knew that if I refused, or worse, if I admitted to conspiring against him, I likely would be killed, be it a bullet, a knife, or merely from his own damn cane. Death was always something I could not tolerate, could not cope with, and so, when Pentious asked me to aid him, the only thing I could think to do was accept. He began to slowly convince the others as the night passed, began to tell them that if they followed him, if they chose to help him usurp Darian and appoint him as the leader of the Noblemen, that they would move on from the city entirely, that they would head West, to America, and begin a new life with bigger weapons at their disposal, leading to bigger heists, bigger rewards, more than ever before. He claimed that he could offer them a chance to live life to their fullest, and that to stay within Dirvington only meant inevitable capture and death for all of them. And we knew it too. We knew we could not afford to stay for much longer. And we knew that if we left Darian alive, he could easily go to the police himself and have us all hunted down. So he would need to die.”_

_“We made our decision that night. In the morning, we had all gathered together, and watched as Pentious pretended to withdraw from the deal, and that he would be leaving the group forever. He had offered a hand for Darian to shake, and with a sad smile, he took it. Pentious brought up his other hand into the air, and within moments, a gun was in it, the barrel pointed directly at Darian’s forehead. He pulled the trigger. I don’t think I have to describe what happened next.”_

“Blah, blah, blah.” Alastor rolls his eyes. “I could never handle anyone who pushed blame away from themselves. Loathsome in all meanings of it.” He notes Pentious usurping Darian and killing him with his own hand.

_Chapter 4: America._

_Sir Pentious and the rest of the Noblemen crew officially left England entirely in 1867, and made their way over to America, docking in that of Boston on May 26th, about two weeks after Darian’s death. It is here that their names, for the most part, generally begin to vanish from most documents or records, indicating that they had most likely vanished from most civilized areas and weren’t the type to stay in one place. Keep in mind that this is merely two years after the end of the American Civil War, where much of the country was trying to heal from the damage that the conflict had caused, meaning that paper trails of anyone that entered or began to travel around the states was likely harder to keep track of. However, it is confirmed that within a year of Pentious first reaching America, in 1868, that a train known as the_ Iron Mountain _was found not even halfway to its destination to that of Louisiana in the South, it’s engine car reduced to little more than a destroyed wreck, where both it and it’s cargo cars had been completely torn off it’s tracks and flung across the ground._

Alastor gasps. “Ah! Louisiana’s in this. That’s just wonderful. Louisiana should be in more things, don’t you think, Niffty?”

She glances back up at him, a large scarf pooling across the ground next to her. “Uhh...Sure?” She shrugs a touch. “You don’t see Pennsylvania much in media either.”

“Isn’t it used as locations in novels quite a bit? I seem to recall a radio show back in the day that featured a campsite or some other in the woods there.” He flips the page.

“Well, if they were, I never read those.” She starts to knit again, looking like she’s starting a new piece of fabric.

 _These mysterious train crashes would continue as the days would pass. Sometimes there would be months that go by with no trains being struck at all, and sometimes there would be multiple trains that would head down one specific path only for them to be struck and destroyed on repeat until the train workers decided to split from that particular path. Sometimes the trains would merely be steered off the tracks by a newly built one that would strand the train in the middle of nowhere, where the guards and conductors would be killed (most often by a bullet to the head or chest) and the train itself would be broken down for scrap. Other times, the trains would meet the same fates as the_ Iron Mountain _and would be forcibly flung from their tracks to crash. There were also reports of even passenger trains being attacked, derailed, with the carts of terrified passengers being held hostage and only released when the ransom money was received. Ransoms were also held for conductors and engineers, but unlike the passengers, they almost never made it back alive, even when the money was offered and accepted. Police reports speak of times when they sent the money to the location in an envelope, and showed up only to find the conductor’s corpse tied to a tree, or found days later floating down a river._

Alastor hums at Niffty’s response, scribbling a few notes down regarding the _Iron Mountain._ A few words like _cold-blooded_ and _foolish cops_ makes it alongside them. Cops almost always make the mistake of tossing money without setting a proper catch first.

 _“It’s only when the_ Steel Dragon, _a rather infamous train most heavily known for spearheading much of the West’s colonization but had been converted into both a cargo_ and _passenger, was found destroyed on it’s way to Washington, with no recorded survivors amongst the crash site, that more immediate actions began to be taken by the American government. Soldiers and guards began to patrol every single passenger train that was running in the East as well as the South, where much of the attacks were taking place, and as a result, the Noblemen themselves began to make more explicitly public appearances, though Sir Pentious still did his damndest to remain out of sight of the common public. More people began to act up in the name of the Noblemen, began to join in the group’s rankings as scouts and gunman, often that of radicalized workers and former veteran soldiers who grew spiteful of how the American government was growing.”_

“Hmm...” Radicals. Could be that quite a few of them made it to Hell, and likely were still working for Pentious (if they were still alive). It’d be interesting to get a face to face encounter with them, but he’d risk exposing himself if he simply starting interrogating them. Maybe he could spend some time listening in on conversations in the rec room while drinking some coffee.

_At this time, Adeline Brooks herself had grown to be quite successful as an artist, with her paintings and portraits making hundreds of dollars every year and ending up in museums all across England, and in 1872, she too eventually made her way across the sea to the States to sell her artwork. Through that of letters, Adeline was able to eventually track Sir Pentious down to a small town within that of Idaho, and reunited with her brother. It was a bittersweet reunion._

_Excerpt from Adeline Brooks (dated 1902):_

_“He was so different from the last time I laid my eyes on him. He had told me that he had received an offer to join in a brand new scientific project over in America, and that he had to leave and set sail. He had been sad to leave me behind, of course he was, but I saw just how excited he was to go, to join in on something that truly could’ve changed history in its entirety. If I had known what I know now...I don’t know what I would’ve done. I don’t know if I truly could’ve changed anything. But what I do know is that when I finally did find him, he was surrounded by thugs, by hired guns, criminals, and they were all praising him as their leader. They were about to shoot me when they saw that I was there, but he stopped them just in time, and after that, he took me aside, and told me everything that had really happened. Back then I was horrified. Outraged. How could I not be, after learning all the chaos that he caused, after all the lives he ended?”_

“His sister was an artist,” he says, mildly surprised. He writes down the date and Pentious’ growth as something close to a 19th century mobster. He adds a note to look into the extent of Valentino’s crew to compare it to Pentious’s - for personal reference, of course.

_“Looking back on it now, I don’t know if I could’ve changed his mind about anything. I doubt that, if I am to be telling the truth. What people don’t understand is that my brother was probably always destined to end up this way. He had an ambition and tenacity for invention, so much so that it was destined to evolve into something bigger, something greater than I ever could’ve imagined. I know now that there probably wasn’t anything I could’ve done. That nothing caused him to become that way. He just always was, and his time in America, his time with the Noblemen, finally allowed him to become the man he always was meant to be; a vicious, sadistic tyrant.”_

_Sir Pentious would spend at least another 10 years conducting raids upon trains, tearing them to pieces, holding people captive for ransom, until 1878 came around, and his crew vanished without a trace for another 6 years. 6 full years went by, without another wrecked train, without another dead hostage to be found, and the whole of America slowly began to breathe a collective sigh of relief, believing that the man known as Sir Pentious had finally ended his reign of terror. Little did they know that it was only beginning._

Alastor settles himself on his couch, crossing a leg over his knee. This is where it’s going to get interesting. This is where the Sir Pentious who has terrorized Hell for almost a century had truly started acting like the supervillain he is. He flips his notepad and starts sketching out a simple timeline.

_In 1883, the world first saw Sir Pentious’s warship soar into the sky for the first time. It was a magnificent craft, around 500 feet long, weighting over 30,000 pounds when grounded and 300 pounds when in the air, it’s vulnerable interior coated with a hide of metallic armor, and it soared to tower above the ground below at an astounding 8,000 feet. The first recorded sighting of the craft was above the state of New Mexico, in the capital of Santa Fe, where it was reported flying across the sky, before it eventually disappeared from sight._

_Excerpt from Aaron Burke (dated 1902):_

_“The first time we stood there in that ship, I have to admit, we were astounded. How could we not be? Here we were, little more than a group of poor English workers who had been deprived of our jobs, our work, and within the span of 16 years, we had become so much more. We now practically stood atop the world, soaring through the air in a ship, the likes of which the world had probably never seen before. There was nothing to stop us from doing whatever we wanted then, and we all damn well knew it. We could rob any bank, any train we could want, and there would be nothing that would be able to stop us. The world hadn’t evolved to the level of aerial combat that we were now in, hadn’t developed the right weapons that could even begin to hope to take us all down. America wouldn’t be able to stop us, no matter what they did. We all knew it. And I think, deep down, we all knew what was coming next. But we didn’t what to believe that it was coming at all.”_

_“We stood there within the cockpit of the ship, staring down at the city below us, while Pentious was up above, standing, his hands clasped tightly over the controls, proudly, his grin more vibrant, more alive than I’ve ever seen it before. He stepped away from the panel, grabbed his cane, and with a flourish, spun it thrice before slamming it down on the ground, and he stared down at us with the smile that I have grown to see in my nightmares; that maniac smile that almost seemed to grow to take over his face, revealing every single tooth. His voice was booming within the room when he finally spoke. ‘Gentlemen, I think it is time we talk of the endgame. It is time we talk, of_ revolution.’”

He taps his notepad and writes down _Lovely smile_ in the margins, for a note on a comment Mr. Smiles would be making in the days to come. He writes down _Revolution?_ and underlines it. Maybe he could make some witty comment to tie it all together.

_“I can remember the speech he made so very clearly. I like to think we all knew that it had been a lie, but at the same time, that would’ve been a lie in and of itself. He stood there, atop the podium he had made for himself within his control room, and he spoke, loudly, with vigor and triumph in his voice, strutting about the room as if it was a stage and he was reenacting some Shakespearean play. His exact speech was as follows:_

_“Gentlemen, this is where we now stand. Thousand of feet within the air, within my greatest achievement yet, and for this, I can only thank you, for I could not have come to such a day without your help. Without your support. It is the greatest honor to call you all my closest friends, and I truly have cherished the time we have spent together. But now, my friends, the time has come where we now stand on the precipice of a truly grand choice. We now have the power to do practically anything we want. We can go anywhere we wish, steal from the most advanced, most heavily guarded bank or museum in all of the world, and the world down below us will barely be able to lift a_ finger _in defiance. But I must ask you, Gentlemen, what can we truly do? We can change the very world we stand on, forever, for as long as we live and even further beyond that. We can, and the way I see it, we_ shall. _Because we now have the chance to finally take this meager society, take this horrendous prison of labor and law that we call civilization, and_ tear out it’s throat. _We have the power to bring the powers that be to their_ knees, _weeping and begging for the same mercy that they never gave to the world that they hold in chains. We have the power to wipe the slate clean, the power to flip the switch and cause everything to be born anew. All we have to do, my friends, is simply make the choice to do so.”_

"Oh, that's a good speech." Alastor jots down a few key phrases to riff off of, though he has his doubts about whether Aaron was making it all up. To remember something like that so precisely.... It's unlikely.

_“After a speech like that, how could we not want to commit to the exact revolution that Pentious preached for? How could we not want to do as he asked? I even made sure to write it down, simply to make sure that the words would never leave my mind. We all agreed shortly after that revolution was the exact route that we wished to go towards, and preparations for weapons were immediately made, the moment Pentious gave the word. Some of the unease in my mind began to fall away. Some of the fear began to fade. I thought for a moment that maybe Pentious would truly become a beacon of hope for humanity. Oh, how wrong I was. How horribly, horribly wrong.”_

_On November 30th, 1883, Santa Fe, New Mexico, was attacked by Pentious’s warship from above, around 6 in the morning. The assault lasted for 3 hours, and within that time, over 645 people died. Around 10:45 AM, the people of Salt Lake City were also attacked. 700 people also perished within the wreckage and the flames, with the attack lasting 4 hours straight. 4:23 PM, and Phoenix Arizona was burned to the ground, resulting in the deaths of 346 people. Finally, around 11:56 PM, the city of Denver, Colorado was laid siege to Pentious’s weapons, and over 276 people perished. This attack was over within minutes, for on the stroke of midnight, the ship ceased it’s assault, and disappeared into the smoke. Throughout the course of a single day, Pentious had ended the lives of over 1,967 people._

Alastor's brow raises and he notes the death count. For a first time display of what he was capable of, it was an impressive number. _Is_ an impressive number. He doubts many people in Hell could claim a similar account.

_Excerpt from Aaron Burke (dated 1902):_

_“That day. Oh, the horrors of that day were indescribable. I remember the way that the land below ruptured into flames, the way buildings toppled, the way the it rumbled with the sounds of the explosions that was tearing the ground asunder far below. I remember the screams. There were so many screams. You’d think you wouldn’t be able to hear them from all the way up in the air, but mark my words, you very much can. And throughout it all, Pentious would just stand there, and_ laugh. _He’d tip his head and cackle with such fiendish delight that it would be enough to make even the Devil shudder. He would stand there, watching the death and misery that he was causing via his own hands, his own creations, and howl with absolute_ glee. _To think that such a man were capable of that sound. To think that a man were capable of such cruelty and wear it with pride.”_

Alastor feels his grin stretching as he reads. There is the proof of sadism and visible delight he had heard of and simply _heard_ in Hell. He doubts Lucifer would actually shudder at it. He'd probably try turning it into music more than anything. He makes a mental note to try and make Pentious laugh more. He wants to hear it up close.

_At least three days passed before the airship was spotted again, and this time, the reaction of seeing it up in the air was only met with sheer terror. This time, around 5:30 AM, the airship made an appearance over Austin, Texas, and when the city was set ablaze, 368 people were left dead, though this time, even as the ship began to drift away from Austin entirely, the explosives did not cease, cutting a precise line of fire and destruction through the land below, all the way until he reached his next goal, of New Orleans, Louisiana, where over 542 people were slaughtered. Another path of fire and flames and ashes were carved through the state as the airship began to fly toward it’s next stop, within Jackson, Mississippi, where 723 people perished. From there, attacks were made in Tallahassee (643), Florida (367), Atlanta (854), and even Philadelphia (967). Due to how Pentious’s ship carved a literal path throughout the affected states, never ceasing his assault, it is unclear as to how many were precisely killed that day, though the approximate number comes out to 6,431 people from all the capital attacks alone._

New Orleans mentioned specifically! Oh, that poor, poor city. Such a bloody history left to it. He's glad to call it home. He tallies the death count and makes a note to mention "Hometown" while broadcasting.

_It was then, his ship towering over the smoking fiery ruins of Philadelphia, that Pentious finally turned his voice to the despairing public down below, and to the world that he desired to conquer. He made yet another speech, declaring his intent, and this is probably the most infamous, as well as the only known speech he ever properly gave. The speech is as follows:_

_“Greetings, people of the world, greetings to you all. There are very few of you who may know my name, but at the same time, there are probably very few of you who don’t, depending on where you currently reside. My name is Sir Pentious, future Tyrant and Ruler of all Mankind, and I have come to make my statement. I beseech all known rulers of all known countries to stand down and hand over your rights as presidents, tsars, prime ministers, emperors, whatever you deign to call yourselves, and hand over power to me, and me alone. You have all seen and heard today what happens if I am displeased, if I am slighted, and most of all, if I am_ ignored. _I am giving you your first and last chance to go about this the way it should be handled; peacefully. Rest assured that I do not_ wish _to reduce the whole of humanity to a blazing ruin, but if you do not give control of the world over to me, then you will force my hand, and the deaths of millions, perhaps even billions, will be on your very shoulders. I am giving you 5 days for all of you to properly conduct a meeting in which we may discuss matters further. Please let it be known that if any leaders or rulers do not agree to attend, or worse, dare to attack my vessel, then I will assure you that all of New York and London will be reduced to a smoking crater by the time the 5 days have ended. Please, do try to be reasonable. My patience already grows thin.”_

Alastor has read the speech before, way back in school (a time he honestly wanted to forget, like most people), but, for whatever reason, it struck him differently this time. He had never read it _in Hell,_ so maybe it was simply the fact that he had personally seen the man’s plans in actions, or the fact that he’s shaken his hand, but he could practically feel the words setting a ticking clock on all the world. His grin curls back and widens without him saying or writing anything.

_The ship, after delivering that speech, finally disappeared from sight, and the mass media of the world exploded into an absolute frenzy. Many of the names and titles associated with Sir Pentious now were created in that time, and it was clear that all of the Earth was starting to fear the madman with seemingly unstoppable weapons. Militaries of all the countries, both small and large, began to mobilize in an attempt to track down the monster and hopefully kill him before any of his threats could come to pass, but the ship was never able to properly be tracked. People began to start to perform emergency drills where they hid in their basements or dived for cover out on the streets at the sound of an alarm, built to signal danger if the ship was ever spotted. Leaders of all countries stepped forth to make their own speeches in an effort to placate the masses, some visibly wanting to appease Pentious to soothe his wrath, while others visibly opposed him in every way, swearing that he would end up dead. None of them ever openly agreed to giving up their power._

Such a shame that no one listened to him. Things would have been quite different if even one country had caved to his demands. Alastor idly wonders if the emergency drills offered a preemptive look at bombing raid drills in the World Wars.

_On December 7th, 1883, after the 5 days had passed, an international meeting took place within London, in which all the most powerful leaders of all the most powerful countries gathered together (mainly Britain, Russia, the US, and China), to meet Sir Pentious face to face, and to discuss wether or not they would give up theirs rules, within the privacy of Palace of Westminster. There were at least 10,000 people surrounding the Palace’s gates, looking up toward the skies where they knew the airship would inevitably appear, eager to catch a glimpse of the infamous Sir Pentious and what kind of horrid monster he’d turn out to be. Reports claim that the air was particularly heavy with fog, and that the clouds were dark, and in danger of opening up into rain, so when the ship first began to descend, the crowd was quite startled. But then, the shocks and gasps of astonishment quickly began to turn into outright fear, screams starting to fill the air. For there was no longer merely one ship slowly descending down from the skies below. There was now five ships in total, believed to be one ship for every official member of the Noblemen crew. And each one of them had the capability to wipe out hundreds within the span of mere hours._

Alastor jots down the date, recalling some artist’s renditions of that particular day. There were a few photos floating around of the ships appearing in the sky, but not many. And painters had a tendency to make things even more dramatic than they really were.

 _The ships slowly landed, with police and military trying their damndest to keep the crowds from breaking out into a stampede to run away from the fearsome tyrant and his now amplified threat to all of their lives. It was then that the Noblemen, one by one, began to exit their ships, and the world first received it’s glimpse of the man behind the name. The pictures of Sir Pentious walking down that pathway towards the doors of the palace are infamous, and for good reason. He stood tall, proud, with an immaculate suit and top hat and his cane in hand, grinning from ear to ear with an aura that was smug, confident, and eager to receive the power he had been seeking for so long. It’s not entirely hard to believe the notion that Pentious must’ve thought that he had grown to be unstoppable, which, in all honesty, he very much was. Even his own sister, Adeline Brooks, went on to paint her own interpretation of the mot famous image of her brother. It features him in that immaculate pose, smiling from ear to ear, while the landscape behind him, was blazing with fire, and utterly devoid of all life. This was one of her most famous pieces, and it was the last piece she would ever make. It was dubbed_ Wanted. _Not because of Pentious being a man of crime. But because that was the exact kind of man he always wanted to be._

He flips the page, seeing an old colored photograph of the painting in question, right next to the fuzzy black and white photograph of the man himself in ‘83. It was strange, seeing a demon’s old human form when you had seen them up close. As with everyone, the similarities were quite obvious but only just enough to be uncanny. But most importantly, Sir Pentious hadn’t lost a single ounce of ambition.

_One by one, all of the Noblemen, led by Sir Pentious, walked into the Palace doors, and with that, they slammed shut. This was a meeting that would decide the fate of the world, that would determine if Pentious would stake claim to all of mankind. No one outside the Palace’s walls were privy to what was going on within at the time, and so, they were forced to wait, watching the motionless doors of Parliament, not knowing if this meant the beginning of a brand new tyrant’s rule._

_Excerpt from Aaron Burke (dated 1902):_

_“The negotiations, yes. It was terrifying. It couldn’t be anything but terrifying. We were walking into the British Parliament, essentially, with some of the most powerful men on Earth, and the moment they saw Pentious - Sir Pentious - they knew who he was. It was surreal how they just... understood what his posture meant. And when we were all seated and started to talk, they barely ever looked at anyone except him. Oh, but before that? He made them all shake hands with us. All of us. Some of them didn’t want to shake Lily and Christina’s, for, um, obvious reasons, but he pushed them all. And they listened._

_“The actual negotiations were a failure. I think Pentious knew going in that it was a non-starter, that he’d have to make good on his threat, and during that meeting I could see him growing more and more_ eager _and even pleased with that. And then there were gunshots. It... The foreign leaders immediately stood, demanded to know what was going on, and Pentious simply stared at them with this affronted look and said, “Do you take me for a fool?” The English military had attempted to board one of the airships. When the gunfire had stopped, someone from I think it was Lily’s airship came in dragging a body after her. Dropped him on the carpet and left to go back to the ship, presumably to clean up the other bodies. I was certain that someone in the room was going to be dead by the end of the talks. Thankfully, I was wrong.”_

“Alastor? You ok, bud? You look like your smile is about to rip your cheeks open.”

“Hm?” He looks up at Niffty, brows raised, and closes his lips over his teeth at the look on her face. “Oh, yes. I just find this rather amusing is all. So many people attempted to take down Sir Pentious before his final debut and they all fail even more spectacularly than the last. It’s almost comical.”

“Heh. Amusing. Right.” She tries for a grin, though it’s a bit lopsided. She moves to put her needles down and holds up the cloth she’s been making, bright pink knitting wool with golden stripes. “I made a scarf. Want me to make you one?”

“Uh.” He blinks again, this time like the offer honestly surprised him. “I don’t know. I’ve never worn one before.”

“..You never wore a scarf?” She blinks at him, as if he had suddenly grown a second head. “But what if it was really cold out?”

“Well, it never really gets all too cold in Louisiana. But I suppose in Europe, we simply put on an overcoat of sorts. No scarves. And Hell is, well, Hell. It rarely goes below seventy, and even that is somewhat chilly for here.”

“Huh.” She looks down toward the already finished scarf that she had been making, the fabric looking to be just about her size, before she merely shrugs and moves to finish up the cloth. “Well, I’m gonna make you one anyway. You never know.”

“Very true. Always better to be more prepared than not.” He beams at her and returns to his book, jotting down a few notes.

_From there, Pentious’s reign of terror would continue to rule the world for 5 more years, and within the span of those years, humanity knew nothing more than terror. Cities would be set upon by those infamous warships, threatened with complete and utter annihilation should the authorities guarding them not hand over all requested resources. Any and all attempts to hijack the ships or shoot them down were reduced to little more than smoking ruins. The ships would be set to patrol various continents, from America to England to Russia and China, all of them launching various attacks at various times, and each and every siege would leave hundreds dead and even more dying._

_Weapons manufacturers designed ammunition meant to shoot the aircrafts out of the sky, while various militaries attempted to design their own airships. For the majority of the time, the factories creating them were bombed and, for all intents and purposes, attempts at stopping the man had no effect. In America, Sir Pentious had already amassed a following, and they aided in his annexation of New York City and the surrounding regions. While the ambassadors and leaders of the many nations were unwilling to negotiate with him, it was rather clear that local municipalities and governors were willing to hand over their meager amounts of power in order to protect the lives of their citizens. It took less than a year for Sir Pentious to acquire the entirety of New York State, effectively cutting off Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine from the rest of the continental United States._

_Terror within the world was growing, panic and widespread hysteria began to fill the streets, and soon enough, riots began to fill the streets of Seattle, London, Moscow, and Beijing, composed of people begging and calling for their leaders to hand over control to Sir Pentious all for the sake of finally ending the carnage and death that his ships were spreading throughout the world. Military efforts, already spread thin due to the futile attempts of fighting off Pentious’s attacks on regions and civilized areas, were unable to control the mass waves of panic that were beginning to shatter the delicate balance of power that the world leaders obtained, and slowly, it seemed as if the scale was finally tipping in Sir Pentious’s favor._

Alastor scribbles down the names of the cities and a few dates that were in the margins before skimming over the rest of the attacks and political games Pentious had played in the years coming up to 1888. Everyone said something different about how Pentious died, but Alastor had never quite read what King Cobra thought. It’d be interesting how he characterized the situation.

_On May 15th, 1888, Pentious’s reign of terror and conquest in the eyes of the common public, and of the world, finally came to an end. The man had grown impatient and irate with how the mass leaders of the world refused to give in, and so, he ordered his followers and his ships to launch a massive coup on all the capital cities of the main countries who opposed him within the Palace’s walls, aiming to finally strike down and kill the last struggling few who clung to their power over the land they ruled. The airship driven by Lily took to Russia, the one driven by Gunther traveled to Beijing, Christina’s ship was sent to fend off any possible attacks coming from the ground, and all the while Pentious’s airship carved a path of fire and destruction down the English Channel, until he finally reached London. It was there that the Prime Minister of Britain, Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, made his final stand, before he was killed in the ensuing assault._

_Aaron’s ship was stationed in central Europe, tasked with either going directly after the multitude of countries’ leaders or their government buildings. But not once did his ship fire a bullet. Instead, eye witness reports show his airship heading east to west along Europe, eventually heading into the North Atlantic Ocean at approximately the same time Sir Pentious was leaving England for America._

_Excerpt from Aaron Burke (dated 1902):_

_“I contacted Pentious through our radio system that my ship was experiencing technical difficulties with our more recently installed artillery, and that some of my crew had mutinied and dumped half our water supply into the bomb and weapons crates. It wasn’t a lie. One of the aft canons couldn’t execute a full turn and my crew did mutiny. The only thing Pentious didn’t know was that I was mutinying alongside them.”_

_Sir Pentious slowed his craft to allow Aaron’s ship to tether itself. Mid-air docking was a risky task even for Sir Pentious, but at times were necessary to transfer better equipped engineers or offload ammunitions when necessary. In this case, Aaron was tasked with personally delivering the mutinied crew members to Sir Pentious while engineers fixed the damaged weaponry and Pentious’s personal crew transferred ammunitions. Among the mutinied crew was a man named Calum Alter, who, in fact, had never been a part of Sir Pentious’s followers._

_Calum Alter was in fact a spy and federal agent, hired to be one of the many bodyguards to protect America’s president around the time of the internal meeting, and had now successfully recruited Aaron, as well as the rest of the Noblemen crew, in helping him take Sir Pentious down once and for all. With Calum was a handful of other special agents, sent on all of the surviving nations behalves to assist, and when Calum was on board Pentious’s ship, the trap was set. Elsewhere, the rest of the crew, with their own war ships, secretly made contact with the countries that they were sent to invade, and requested permission to land in order to evacuate the crews onboard. Once done, all 3 ships, their captains still onboard, took off into the air, with their last requests being that the ships be shot down and destroyed. Their requests were granted._

Alastor stares at the page for a moment, then looks over at Niffty. “Niffty, dear, do you recall at all how Pentious and his crew came to their ends on Earth?”

“Uhh...” There was now a visibly larger scarf pooling across the ground from where her knitting needles laid in her lap. She tilts her head back to think. “...I think they all got shot down? Pentious was able to bomb London, but everyone else was able to launch ambushes on the other ships and destroy them.”

“Right...” Alastor glances over the page again. This book was telling a different story, one where the Noblemen all betrayed Pentious. Maybe this was where things were dipping into the fantastical. Or maybe everything really was a conspiracy against Pentious.

“Why? What does the book say?”

“It says the other Noblemen had their ships shot down, though I’m not sure why. Appearances? A deal with the other governments?” He reads it over again, quickly.

“Wait, like...They let their ships get shot down? Or they deliberately had them shot down?”

“More like they evacuated their ships and asked the government to shoot them down while they piloted the ships.”

“...That sounds like suicide.” She frowns at that, softly. “Jeez..Even Pentious’s own crew didn’t want to help him.”

“I suppose so.” He glances at his notepad, scrawled with notes and arrows. He couldn’t go on air and say any of this without being labeled a fanatic. He shouldn’t say any of it unless he wants to tie himself to Pentious in the eyes of Valentino and Vox.

_Excerpt from Aaron Burke (dated 1902):_

_“It was true. We all eventually turned against Sir Pentious. His machines, his sadistic lust for blood and control, we all knew that it had gone on for long enough. We could not let him win, out of fear that if he did, his legacy of terror and fear would only grow until it eventually consumed the entire world. Slowly, over the course of the years that Pentious spent trying to seize control of the states, of the lower-tiered governors, I met with Calum Alter, and together, we managed to convince the others that the time for Pentious to rule had to be stopped. We knew we could not let his machines fall into the wrong hands. We knew that if Pentious found out about our betrayal, he would not stop until all of us were dead. So, while the others sacrificed themselves to destroy the very ships that brought about the deaths of so many, I stayed behind, to make sure that Pentious himself would die, and that his reign would end.”_

_“When I brought Calum onto Pentious’s ship, along with the other agents, we all knew it was a tricky move. If we didn’t succeed, Pentious would continue to terrorize the entire world. So we did nothing to attract attention. One of my crew went to Pentious’ ship’s engine to ask for a better engineer, but he was really going there to sabotage the engine. Pentious was mid-speech when the engine began to give out. Calum then took the gun holstered on my hips and shot him in the stomach, and then announced his identity and the rest of the agents’ to the crew in the cockpit. We put out an immediate evacuation order to the entire crew so they could escape onto my vessel, and then we... left him there. He’d either bleed out or die in the crash, and his airship, with all the most modern attachments and blueprints and ammunition, would disappear in the Atlantic with him. No one would be able to find it and use it ever again. You have to understand that we_ had _to do this. He didn’t give us a choice, King Cobra.”_

_Of all the pathetic things that I’ve ever heard that man say, I believe those last words to be the most cowardly and insignificant. Leaving a man broken and betrayed, left to die within the depths of the cold sea, deeming him the monster and the evil mastermind when Aaron was the same one who weaseled his way into Pentious’s inner circle and turned his cheek to all of the atrocities that were committed, for decades, just for the sake of having a profit and slowly leeching the riches away from the bodies that he stole them from. He’s just as guilty, just as greedy, just as “evil” as he claims Sir Pentious was. The only difference is Aaron Burke had too weak of a stomach to follow through._

Alastor exhales and jots down Aaron and Calum’s names down once again, circling them and writing _hypocritical cherry pickers_ underneath the circles. Being a murderer in Hell, he knows that you only stay respected if you can keep your claim as a killer. Rescinding your status or pushing the blame to someone else only turns the other sharks in the water on you. Adding betrayal to that list? He may as well have bathed in fish bait.

_In the end, Pentious’s airship crashed into the sea, and the man was never seen again, having been swallowed up along with his craft and dragged into the bottom of the Atlantic. The world rejoiced, Calum Alter and the other agents were proclaimed as worldwide heroes by the American President, and Aaron Burke, though locked under house arrest for the rest of his days, was officially pardoned from his deeds that he committed under Pentious’s name. Any and all concrete blueprints of Pentious were found and destroyed, burned, purged, to make sure that no one would be able to find out the secrets behind his most dangerous weapons, to make sure the man’s legacy stayed dead and gone. Any and all former members of the Noblemen’s militia were hunted down and locked away, and the time of the Master of the Skies was over._

Alastor notes that Aaron never was sentenced as harshly as he admittedly should have been, closing the book with his thumb keeping his place. "I have many questions, Niffty. Many, many questions." He hums and stands. "I think I'll ask Pentious a few of them tomorrow."

“You sure that’s a good idea?” She looks up at him at that, tilting her head. “I mean...He’s gonna know you researched him.”

"Everyone researches their job at some point." He shrugs. "Besides, he's a famous sinner. Most people already know about him."

“I suppose...” She glances at the book still in his hands. “Just try to be careful. I’m not sure how well the man responds to questions. I know I wouldn’t want to have people persistently asking me questions about my life story.”

"Ooh, you might be onto something there." He taps his notepad against his chin. "I wouldn't appreciate it either. Hmm. I'll consider it."

“Maybe _ask_ if you can ask him questions first? Just to be safe?”

"Ah! Go back to my journalist roots! Of course!" He makes another affirmative noise, the radio in the kitchen seemingly accidentally clicking on and playing Sinatra's _Blue Moon_ as he hurries toward the stairs. "I'm going to get my notes in order and start writing scripts! See you in the morning, dear!"

Niffty is left wide eyed as she watches the door open and close behind him, and soon, there was little else besides the soft music playing in the other room. She slowly lets out a sigh, sitting back against the couch again, trying to hold back a yawn as she keeps on knitting. The lyrics of the song flow through the air, and for a moment, the needles in her hands cease. Her voice was a soft whisper under her breath as she starts to sing along. 

_Blue moon, you saw me standin' alone_

_Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own_

_Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for_

_You heard me sayin' a prayer for_

_Someone I really could care for_

_And then there suddenly appeared before me_

_The only one my arms will hold_

_I heard somebody whisper "please adore me"_

_And when I looked, the moon had turned to gold_

_Blue moon, now I'm no longer alone_

_Without a dream in my heart_

_Without a love of my own!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear that’s the end of the massive lore dumping by books. I swear.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got another chapter done! We had some real fun with this one, so we hope you enjoy it as much as we did.
> 
> Feel free to kudos and comment if you like what you see! <3

“A call, sir, for you.”

Valentino turns his head where he’s standing, clutching a golf club in his hands and readying a swing. His caddy (he really doesn’t need one, but it’s hilarious watching the man try and carry clubs fit for a ten foot tall demon) holds up a telephone for him to take from its dock. He smirks, watching the man tremble as he tried to reach anywhere close to his height, and then takes the phone of the hook and brings the receiver to his lips. “This better be good. I’m about to get a hole-in-one.” His golf club shifts into his other hands as his cigar passes up to his lips, and he takes a solid puff to ready himself for good or bad news.

Within an instant, a voice slips out through the transmitter part of the phone’s handle, the speaker a bit on the muffled side, but still loud enough to be clear. It wasn’t one he recognized but clearly must have been one of his grunts that prowled the streets. “ _Boss, I think we might have trouble again. Mr. Smiles is on the move.”_

“Mr. Smiles?” He straightens a little, turning to look at Vox, whose expression shifts from _annoyed puppy_ to _slight shock, fear, and excitement_ in an instant. Valentino smirks at him for it. “What did he do this time? Sounds more serious than a simple radio broadcast if you took the time to call the direct line.”

“ _Yes, Boss, I definitely think so. He was last seen by the_ Roaring Gates _over deep in the West side, two girls with him. And, uh, correct me if I’m wrong, Boss, but wasn’t Maurice saying something about how he was going to try and scout out the place to see if it could be bought?”_

“Yeah, he was. The place is probably the ritziest place on the West side.” He frees one hand and digs it into his coat, fishing out a small notepad and thumbing through it. “I haven’t seen Maurice today either. Why? Somethin’ go down over there?”

“ _Apparently a fight broke out on one of the lower floors. A really big one too. Lots of blood and dead bodies from what I’ve heard the staff complaining about. They won’t let anyone get into the room to see, so I can’t_ confirm _but we did catch a glimpse of Smiles leaving the building after, heading off toward East. The girls weren’t with him anymore but they left too. They were carrying our jackets, Sir, five of them, and they had blood on them, so...I’m not thinking Maurice made it out.”_

Valentino takes that in, rolling his jaw and letting smoke pool out of his mouth. Five men down, with two people Smiles had been with walking out with their jackets. Conmen and fakes are the only ones who have a reason to take his men’s coats. And maybe fashion designers and certain sellers. He doesn’t go cheap with them after all. “Get someone into that building and collect their bodies if they’re still there. I want answers, _fast_.”

“ _Y-Yes, Boss, but, uh...Th-There’s one more thing you should know. Smiles was seen heading East, and I had one of my guys tail him to try and figure out where he was going, and...I just got word from him that he was seen exiting Rex’s house, Sir. You know, the man from Vox’s operation that had been assigned to catch him? Smiles was seen lighting his house on fire.”_

“Is that _so_ ?” He gives Vox a look, distaste brewing in him. “Any idea _how_ he set Rex’s house on fire? And was he inside?” Either Smiles is eating his men now or not, and he wants to know before making any more moves against him.

“ _He...He walked off the porch. He walked off the porch and his house just went up in flames. We don’t know if Rex was in there or not. The guy who tailed him said he didn’t hear any screaming, didn’t hear_ anything _and he couldn’t go into the house because it was already up in flames by the time Smiles was gone, and we hadn’t heard anything from him for two days now. We don’t know what happened, but I think it’s safe to say that Smiles went and got him.”_

“Well, wait a minute. He walked off the porch? Just, walked out the front door?” He frowns. “Was he carryin’ anything? A bag, a knife, anything? What’d he look like? Happy, pissed off, neutral?”

“ _Yeah. The guy said that Smiles just walked out the front porch with nothing in his hands, and the moment he stepped off the porch, the whole house went up in flames. He wasn’t carrying anything, nothing, and, well...He was smiling. That’s all we know. He was smiling and leaving the house to burn down. I wasn’t there, I wasn’t able to see if it was a happy smile or not.”_

“Make sure whoever it was that saw him gets to my office around four o’clock today. I wanna chat. And get a crew to sift through the wreckage. I want to know _for sure_ that he wasn’t in that house.”

“ _Yes, Boss. Right away, Boss.”_

“I want results by the time I’m finished golfing, understood? Too much bullshit and today’s supposed to be my off day.” He drops the phone back into the hook, turning away from his caddy and sticking his cigar between his teeth. He writes something in his notepad.

Vox, meanwhile, crosses his arms, eyes narrowing as his lips twist into a grimace. “So, the bat went and got axed by Smiles now?”

“Potentially.” He tucks the notepad into his coat, lining himself back up with his golf ball. “He didn’t walk out with a body in tow, so it doesn’t seem like he _ate_ the fucker. Which I’d say is lucky as is. Sounds like he’s-” He puts his golf ball, watching it bounce between a few obstacles and slow to a crawl before plinking into a hole. “-quite the pyromancer, though. If I’m right, could be some kind of instant combustion gimmick.”

“Probably...Doesn’t make much sense with what _we_ know, though. I mean, first the fucker has crazy healing properties, can tear through flesh like it’s paper and somehow take a shotgun to the stomach, and _now_ he can make things explode on command? It doesn’t feel right to me. Doesn’t really add up, you know?”

He looks at him over his glasses. “When you get as old as me, you’ll stop being surprised by the people around you.” He beckons the caddy over and hands him his club. “Hell may seem like some place where only the big names have fancy powers, but some of the small fries make it in with some tricks up their sleeves too. _I_ used to be small. _You_ used to be small. We started watching Smiles because he’s small but actively _growing_.”

“Alright, alright, no need for the lecture, _Grandpa_ .” Vox rolls his eyes at that, crossing his arms. “I _know_ that, but the fact that he’s growing so damn fast is what’s got me confused. Not only because of “how”, which we don’t know, but also because we have no idea what the fuck he’s going to do.”

“Which is why I plan on talking with him.” He grins at him, putting a hand on his shoulder and turning him to walk toward the next hole. He keeps an arm around his shoulder. “Rex wasn’t the only member of the group that went and killed the girl. And, as my wonderful little Angel Dust put into so few words, Smiles could be after him as well. And if there’s any way to hunt a hunter...” His grin widens sharply, all his glimmering teeth on display. “It’s to let him hunt.”

Vox blinks as Val so casually throws his arm around his shoulders, finds himself slowly being lead, being practically _pushed_ down the walkway, and as he sees the sadistic glimmer in that man’s eyes, he feels his own widen a touch, feels a slight buzz shoot through his screen, and he holds up a hand, not even bothering to pull away. “Wait, wait...You’re gonna _let_ Smiles rip your prostitute into a bloody pile of wet fur? Just like that?” 

“Please, the kid’s family is a bunch of mobsters. He grew up in the thirties and forties as a prostitute in the _middle_ of gang wars.” He rolls his eyes, trilling his fingers on Vox’s shoulder. “Plus, he’s a spider. If he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, he’s good at getaways. And if he isn’t good at getaways, then, well... damn, it’s a shame, isn’t it?” He chuckles and takes a hit from his cigar. “It’s not like he’s gonna be a star or anythin’.”

Vox himself frowns ever so slightly, and he can’t help but bite his lip a touch, eyes glancing away from Val’s face, his smug, sadistic grin, so casual in it’s cruelty, and he crosses his arms. “I mean, if that’s what _you_ wanna do. Just leave me out of it. I was fine with that stupid bat dying; I mean, he shot a girl in the fucking head, he _deserved_ whatever he got, but a simple prostitute? Kinda seems a bit..” He trails off, realizing who he’s talking to and just sighs, eyes flicking away again. “Whatever. Forget it.”

Valentino raises a brow at him and doesn’t say anything for a moment. He keeps his arm on his shoulders. He takes another puff from his cigar and holds it out to him. “Y’know, I kinda like that about you. You got guts sticking to your own moral code and telling me how you’d run my business.” He smirks, softer, to hopefully get it across that he’s joking, for the most part.

“Ha ha ha, I get it, I’m a fucking wuss that needs to get used to it because it’s _Hell_ and that stupid shit. Don’t need to rub it in.” He rolls his eyes again, but after a moment, he moves to take his cigar and takes a puff from it, letting the smoke trail out slowly from between his teeth. “It’s not that easy. You only say it’s easy cuz you already lost whatever fucks you used to give.”

“Harsh. But true.” He chuckles and pats his back. “And I genuinely meant that as a compliment.” He snaps his fingers for another cigar and the caddy hurries over to him, stumbling slightly, and pulls one out of a box hanging from his side. He cuts the tip, lights it, and hands it to the Overlord. “Do you know why every head of state on Earth has aides, Vox? Diplomats, pencil pushers, secretaries, department heads? You know why they’re so important?”

Vox watches the cigar get lit, and moves to take a puff of the one he’s been given, taking a deeper breath before letting it out. “Calling me a pencil pusher now?” He smirks to indicate its in jest.

Valentino smirks at him, chuckling lowly. “They’re important because every boss needs someone to tell them off when they’re heading to the deep end. Otherwise, the guy in charge just sets the world on fire.” He pats him on the back and continues walking. “Your smart ass mouth is getting a raise, pencil pusher. Now, come on, I’ve still gotta teach you how to play golf.”

“And yet you complain as to why everyone calls you old behind your back.” Vox chuckles, a grin coming back to his face at that, shaking his head in amusement.

“It helps me think things through. Nobody understands that these days.” He rolls his eyes, puffing on his cigar, and he smiles.

“Ugh, Jesus, you sound more and more like my grandfather.” Vox rolls his eyes before hunching over as if pretending he has a bad back and he shakes his fist in the imitation of a cane. “ _Back in my day, blah, blah, blah, and all that shit.”_ He straightens himself up, smirking at him as he moves to give Val a pat on the back. “We need to get you newer hobbies. Can’t have you being a crusty old cockroach forever.”

He laughs at that, a full, deep belly laugh, and he gives Vox a large grin that isn’t full of predatory sadism. “You can try, but I doubt anything will stick.”

“Oh really?” He crosses his arms and leans up on his toes in an effort to make himself just a bit taller, smirking wickedly. “I feel like I’ve been issued a challenge.”

“Sure, sure. First order of business after getting your raise: make me more modern.” He smirks at him, elbowing him playfully. “May you die trying.”

“Already dead, jackass.” He elbows him right back, chuckling.

•••

Alastor wakes up earlier than usual the following day. Not out of any pressing urgency to get to work or even to continue reading through the minutiae of the book Rosie had lent him, but to prepare a proper meal and set it in the fridge for later (after a snack, of course). His broadcast hums softly through the air, new songs playing through them, some of which he had only screened once. More radios click on throughout the city than he’s used to for these early hours. His signal grows a few bands stronger, and he feels a few other channels dip into fuzziness. He hums on the way to Pentious’ base, paying next to no attention to anyone who passes him. He’s fairly certain that wolf from before is in the same elevator as him _again_ but he pays it no mind, stopping by the rec room for a cup of coffee and loitering for a moment.

There are too many questions bouncing around his skull and it’s making him restless. He hates being restless. It makes him want to kill people for reasons outside of joy. He finishes two thirds of his coffee and tosses the rest into the trash, walking back to the elevator and hitting the lowest floor. Maybe talking would wake him up faster than a cup of coffee.

Pentious himself was currently resting behind his desk, his eyes flicking back and forth across the map of the Pentagram that he had laid out, various circles drawn all over small, seemingly insignificant parts of the City’s architecture, and he lets his tongue flicker out softly, moving to pick up a rather tall mug, a thick blend of ice, milk, coffee, and caramel topped off with whipped cream within it, and he moves to take a sip of it via the straw sticking out of it. His eyes flick to the small handheld radio that rests atop his desk, around the size of a shoebox, and he lets the tip of his tail to slide up and flick it on, idly moving to twist the dials upon its surface left and right, left and right, a motion that become as common place and as natural to him as walking without legs, and he looks away just as the beginnings of a song begin to play, crackling out of the speakers. He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking up toward the elevator entrance to his office, before moving to roll up the map he has laid over his desk, tucking it back into the drawers of his desk, only to pull out another scrolled map, rolling it back out and fashioning it to the desk like so. He moves to take another sip from his mug, before setting it back down, making sure to make a final adjustment to his bow tie.

The song slowly softens, fading out, and just at the tail end, a voice covers the instrumental, crisp and energetic despite the early morning. “ _And that would be one Frank Sinatra singing ‘Sentimental Journey,’ straight from Earth itself. Beautiful music to wake up to, if I may say so myself. The song dates back to the early forties, with Les Brown and His Band of Renown, as well as the wonderful Doris Day. Sinatra’s is quite different from the original, but it still has that_ something _to it, do you think, dear listeners?_ ” There’s a chuckle, softer than usual, with that distinctive whir of electrical interference followed by a solid pop. “ _Now, how about I take you a little further back? This will be ‘Good Morning Blues’ sung by Eddie Durham, Jimmy Rushing, and, of course, Count Basie. Can never get enough of Basie here at_ Morning Smiles, _can we? And yes, this would be a good time to start your day, especially those of you living on Millcourt Row.”_ The speaker chuckles again as the music fades back in.

Pentious moves to take yet another sip of his coffee as the voice slowly filters out of the speakers and into the air, and aside from a moment where the connection seems to crackle, a simple adjustment to the antenna with the tip of his tail is enough to silence the annoying break-up in the man’s speech. He glances back toward his work, towards the many roads and interconnected pathways that were vital for shipment, that voice cracking against his scales as that soft chuckle rings out around him, and his tail idly flicks, softly, barely even noticed. He glances back toward the elevator again, and hears the soft rumbling of the mechanisms, finally reaching over with a hand to turn the knobs again, taking deliberate care to veer away from the stations that held the frequency, idling for a moment before finally settling on a simple news broadcast, retracting his hand to let it fold with his other. He lets his eyes settle on the elevator doors, and waits.

The elevator dings softly, doors sliding open, and Alastor, dressed head to toe in varying shades of red, steps out, a wide grin on his face. Something about him seems different, in a good way. Perhaps he looks healthier? The dark marks under his eyes aren’t as deep as before and his movements are a touch more energetic and bouncy. Either way, he walks toward Pentious’s desk and bends forward an inch, as close to a bow as he’ll let himself get. “Good morning, my dear! I hope your evening was as uneventful as mine.”

Pentious lets his eyes narrow a touch, in idle contemplation, letting a smirk grow upon his lips, a touch satisfied to see that his newest employee looked a little less sickly then he did before. He lets his tail flick idly, the news broadcast lessening to incomprehensible babble as he looks the man over, humming after a moment. “Hmm. It was rather a bit more boring last night, yes. I take it _your_ evening was devoid of any further upsetting news?”

“I have a bad habit of eating my stress away.” He smirks at the multiple connotations, some of which Pentious isn’t even privy to. He slips into the chair in front of the desk. “Listened to a few shows, read a rather intriguing book, and called it quits a bit early. Oh, did Loralai and Jasmine get back alright?”

“Hm.” He can’t help but let his own smirk grow a touch, and he has to clench his tail to keep it from flickering, from giving too much away. After a moment, he adjusts his stance to give it more of a relaxed outlook, his toothy grin fading into an idle smile. “They made it back with at least 4 Marquises in worth of Valentino bounties, if the official reports are correct. Quite the sssssizable haul.”

“Is that so?” He raises a brow. Five men dead is sizable? He should go on a few more sprees if that were the case. “What do people usually bring in? And I am curious about what you’re doing with those coats, aside from burning them to cinders.” He leans an elbow on the arm of his chair, resting his cheek against his knuckles.

“They usually bring in around 2 to 3, maybe even four. Of courssssse there are always a few trying to simply bypassss the system using _fake_ coatsss that aren’t the real thing, but I have my way of knowing which is real and which is not.” His tail flicks and he lets himself shrug. “Asss for the coats themselves, we merely burn them. It’s not like Valentino givesss a damn if his own men get ssslaughtered anyway, so even if I decided to fling them towards his mansion like the Mongols catapulted plague-infested bodies over Caffa’s walls, I doubt it would make any sssort of effect.”

“I suppose you couldn’t quite make a disguise either. He knows who he works with, for the most part.” Alastor hums, then shrugs and leans back, crossing his legs. “So you wanted to talk to me about our little... Charlie problem?”

“Hmm..Indeed.” His grin drops at that and this time he moves to silence the radio for good, turning it off with his tail. “There may have been a few detailssss I neglected to tell you at firssst, considering you were with Rosie.” He lets out a sigh, a hand moving to drum across the desk. “It sssseems our princess of Hell isn’t just looking for _you_ , she’s _also_ looking for your friend, Niffty. She claimed that she was in danger, because of _you_ , if I’m remembering correctly, and that she wanted to find her to make sure she sssstays safe.”

He blinks, a small clinking noise emanating with the motion, and raises a brow at him. “Did she say why she thinks I’m a danger to her? I mean-” He leans forward, a hand on his chest. “-I can understand if she knows I’m a killer, but this is Hell! Almost everyone down here has killed someone at some point. But I’d never hurt Niffty. I all but owe her my life!”

“Apparently, for whatever reassson, _she_ doesn’t think so. All she said was that the girl was in danger if she was with you and that she needed to find you to find _her_.” His tail flicks again. “Luckily Nora was able to distract her by telling her that you were last seen around either the North or South end of the West sssside, so that should throw her off the track for a while, but in the meantime, it’s probably bessssst that you try to stay out of Nora’s home. She’ll be the one going to ssspeak with Charlie for the most part during all of this, and I can’t risk you running into each other out there.”

He presses his lips together and leans back, trying to not let his sudden inability to sneak a peek at Nora’s books ruin the rest of his day. “You have a point. Hm. I’ll try my best to keep my walks closer to Central, but how will I get down here without the use of Nora’s tunnel? I imagine there are more entrances, of course...”

“Hmm..” He glances up toward him. “If you wish, you could always travel down here with your team. Jasmine and Loralai live in an apartment complex with at least 50 more of my employees, and the tunnel they take, while a bit further away, is still fast enough to get you here on schedule. You’ll just need to leave and start walking a bit earlier than usual.”

“I suppose I could manage that.” He leans his jaw in his hand, tapping his cheek and wonders how long it’ll take for his humming to bother someone taking the tram. “What’s the address?”

“629 Limerick Road, around...here.” He points a claw toward a little further down from the North side on the map but still within walking distance.

“629 Limerick...” He eyes the map, glancing around to find the approximate location of his own house and tracing a few routes to where Pentious’s finger lays. “Yes, I can do that. Hm. What about Charlie, though? Is there anything I should do if and when she finds me? You told her I killed some of your men, right?”

“I told her you killed _one_ of my men, yes. Which wasn’t exactly a lie.” He moves to sip at his mug before placing it back down. “If you happen to see her without her seeing you, I’d advise you go through any necessary sssteps to keep out of her sight. If you _do_ get caught, don’t try to give away that you know me and just so happen to be _working_ for me.” His tail twitches and his hood even seems to rattle a bit.

“Of course. Keep up the rouse, run circles around her as needed...” One of his nails scratches his temple as he considers the elephant in the room. He doesn’t want to ask the question, but not asking would be just as bad.

“...Sssomething wrong, Alastor?” He raises a brow.

“No, I merely....” He takes a breath, avoiding his gaze. “Lucifer keeps a close watch on his daughter, and this is the first time she’s left the mansion since, well, before either of our times. What happens if he involves himself?” 

“Hmm..” He narrows his eyes a touch, tail flicking, and after a moment, he sighs. “I’m not entirely certain. Which is why I think it’s in bessst interest for the both of us to have you not get caught.”

“Easier said than done, especially when it’s the King of Hell we’re talking about.” He taps his cheek again. “I know how to avoid people, but Lucifer has... more powers than anyone knows.” He considers the letters that had been addressed to him, the level of craft needed to pristinely cut an entire demon into deli quality slabs of meat without raising a single alarm, the magic needed to transport such a high volume of material within Hell without lifting a trace of magic into the wind. Lucifer could do that, no question. Which means he could also _track him_ regardless of how many charms and spells he put on himself.

“Yesss, but we aren’t exactly dealing with Lucifer right now, are we?” Pentious tilts his head at that. “We’re dealing with his daughter, and it’s made quite clear that she isn’t likely to get him involved. She’s rissssking her own freedom at that point.”

Alastor gives him a look. “If she’s going around asking people about me, getting books from some shady library and bringing them back home, where Lucifer also lives, it’s only a matter of time until he figures her out. He’s not an idiot, and, quite honestly, a much more pressing threat than his daughter.”

“And I’m _well_ aware, Alastor. The only issue is that I’m not certain what I can do if Lucifer finds out or not. If he does, it’s very well possible that thissss _whole_ operation, this base, everything, could be reduced to ssssmoke. Which is precissssely why I don’t want him to know.”

“Then maybe it’d be best to settle things with Charlie immediately.” Alastor leans forward again. “I can explain to her that all of this is a misunderstanding. I can invite her to my house to see Niffty, and the whole thing will be swept under the rug. Gone, smoothed over, collecting dust.”

“Hmm...” His nose wrinkles up in slight distaste at the idea. “..I’m not certain that’s a good idea. Even if she issss merely looking out for the sake of Niffty, there is not guarantee that she won’t _also_ be out for your blood. She may be a pretty pink _princessss_ but she’s also the daughter of _the Devil_ . If she wants you dead, you _will_ be dead, and I’m not exactly keen on losing my newest employee.”

“So letting her continue the hunt and storm through the streets for as long as possible is the best option we have?” He raises a brow at her. “You know I’m a decent fighter. You’ve seen me. I can hold my own without laying a finger on her.”

“Forgive me if I sssseeem skeptical of that claim when we’re talking about the literal spawn of Lucifer, Alastor.” He raises a brow at him, looking dubious of his words to say the least.

His smiles thins and he huffs, leaning back and looking away. “The best I can do is going completely off the grid, but I _won’t_ do that unless the situation worsens _dramatically_ . I’ve had to do it before and I’m not entirely _eager_ to do it again. But I imagine, if we let Charlie go about her business willy-nilly, that’s what it’ll come down to. And at that point you _will_ be losing me as an employee out of necessity.”

“Hmm..” His tail flickers and his tongue slides out from his teeth out of distaste. “I’m not exactly keen on losing this posssition, you know. Aiding the princesss in anything at all has quite the potential to become valuable, and I’d rather not have my offer of help be exposed so quickly as a lie.” His tail swishes idly from side to side.

“I never said anything about admitting to-” He stops himself, eyes narrowing, and a fizzle of static hums at the very edge of their hearing. “Oh. I see. You want to use the situation as a means to leverage your status among the Overlords and, potentially, Lucifer himself. Which means that if I end this too quickly, you lose your leverage.”

Pentious’s eyes narrow right back, though a soft smirk does lift up the corner of his lips. “Guilty as charged, Alasssstor.” His hood unfurls at that, ever so slightly, the tips beginning to rattle. “Trussst me when I say that such leverage will be quite ussseful in the future, not jussst for me, but for the both of us.”

“You mean _if_ I manage to survive this.” His brows shoot under his bangs. The instinct to hit the eject button and find some other odd bauble to be fascinated over hits him, and he has to keep his claws in check to remain completely civil. “The longer you go trying to get leverage, the more likely my hide gets pinned to some trophy wall.”

Some of his distaste seems to have shown through, as Pentious’s grin seems to fade, and he lets out a sigh, his hood already starting to deflate. “..As far as I’m aware, Charlie only knows you killed one of my men. Unless you go about leaving corpsssses everywhere when out on your job, I have no reason for her to jump the gun and immediately move to call for her father to aid. The trick here is to make sssure that Charlie believes _this_ is something she can handle herself. We just have to go about lisssstening to what she tells us, and go through the proper steps to adjust the trail so she never fully catches on.”

He watches him, considers the mess of bodies he had just left in one of the most well-known bars in Hell, and considers the odds of being able to sway Pentious’s view. He shrugs and looks aside, accepting defeat. “Fair enough.” He’s been known to be adaptable. He could make it work. Possibly.

Pentious raises a brow at that, not looking very convinced at how easily Alastor accepted defeat. “Ressst assured that I’m not exactly looking for you to get _killed_ , Alasstor. It’s in my best interest to keep you _away_ from Lucifer, and I’ll try my damndest to do that.”

“If you have an invention that would make it impossible to trace magic, that’d be useful.” He leans back again, leaning his chin on his hand.

“Hmm...” He taps his chin a touch at that, and for a moment, he actually seems to squint. “...Give me a couple dayssss. I’ll see if I can ssscrounge something up.”

Alastor blinks. “Wait, really? You’re actually gonna try and make something?”

“Of coursssse. I’m essentially putting your life on the line in thissss scenario, might as well create something to make sure it doesn’t all fall to piecesss the moment you step out the door.” He waves a hand idly, almost dismissively, smirking a touch. “Besssides, I might already have an idea.” He opens his mouth to further elaborate, but pauses when a phone from across the room begins to ring sharply, and he moves to slither over toward it, picking up the handle off it’s receiver and lifting it up to his ear. “Yess? What is it?”

Alastor watches him, curious about the device he had somehow thought up on the spot and the reason for a direct call to Sir Pentious. His ears flick, hearing the voice on the other end as mere static for a moment before he lets the barest hint of his magic pick up the excess static of the call.

“... _ean Branch. Unknown number of casualties and assailants with ongoing fire heading toward the reactor core.”_

Pentious’s expression visibly twists with anger, with irritation, his hood flaring and his tail lashing, and his eyes narrow down as he begins to growl orders into the phone’s handle. “Ssssend orders to the artillery level. Tell them to start determining the coordinates and load up the canon. I’ll be up there shortly to assist. Do you copy?”

“ _Yes, Sir. Immediately, Sir. Sending the orders as we speak.”_

Alastor slowly stands up, staying quiet to keep from interrupting the man.

“Good!” He slams the phone down back down onto it’s handle, and moves to turn towards the elevator, slithering towards it with a determined scowl on his face, his hood still flared, his hat snarling in what looks to be fierce anger. He presses a claw down on the button to open up the doors, and as he slithers inside, he gestured for the man to follow, his scowl slowly turning into a vicious grin. “Come with me, Alassstor. You won’t want to missss this.”

He doesn’t hesitate, trotting toward him and squeezing his way into the elevator. He situates himself into the further corner he can find and leaves the rest for Pentious to coil up in. “May I ask what’s going on? It sounds like someone’s upset you. Severely.”

“Oh, nothing _too_ upsetting. Sssseems like someone over in the European section of Hell has decided to go and attack one of my power plantssss, thinking that since my militia is over _here_ , I won’t be able to intercept.” He chuckles as the elevator closes and they start to ascend. “But I assure you. I _will_.”

“Oh, really?” Well, at the very least Pentious _looks_ a touch happier than their previous conversation. Alastor lets any misgivings he had been clutching onto slip away, grinning cockily at the infamous Overlord in front of him. “And how do you propose to do so from so far away?”

“Patience, Alassstor. You will soon see.” He smirks, chuckling a touch, as the elevator continues to ascend.

“I’m not particularly known for my patience....” Alastor flicks his gaze to the digital read out of the elevator’s progress, finding it stuck at _E_ despite them still moving. The letter flickers for a moment before the doors ding open on a wide balcony overlooking what seemed to be a massive artillery weapon, posed straight up at least three stories tall into a domed ceiling, large cables dripping from several parts of it and pooling across the ground below. Alastor dimly steps up toward the railing, mouth hanging open as he watches a flock of demons move out from a hemicircle of metal and bolts - a joint for the thing to to swivel on? - making room for another crew to move in with some metal and glass cylinder to be inserted into the base. The entire thing was slick, smooth, angular in some senses, and while he _knew_ what he‘s looking at simply based off his prior military experience, he couldn’t even _begin_ to guess what it was.

His claws clink against the metal bar as pure fear and adrenaline and excitement starts pumping through his veins. “What... what _is_ it?”

Pentious’s grin practically stretches all the way to the brim of his hat, and he visibly bites back a chortle as he moves to stand besides Alastor, crossing his arms smugly, hood rattling with pride. “Come now, Alassstor. Surely you’ve seen a _canon_ before?”

" _That-_ " He points at the weapon. "-is more than just a cannon. It's - it's...." He shakes his head, laughing, and all but spins to face him, taking in his immense smirk. "What do you put _into_ it? How big are the rounds? This thing is... massive, in all meanings of the word."

“Heheh.” He tilts his head a touch at that, still smirking. “What goes in that canon is the same thing that powers all of my more advanced machinesss.” He gestures to it with a wave of the hand. “And _this_ is _one_ of the most powerful weapons within my base. Think of a...ssssniper rifle, but instead of firing bullets to land in people’s heads, it fires...Well, you’ll see in a moment.”

A low hiss comes from the ground floor, pistons to the far left of the room easing forward. The wall comes apart in a curved triangle, pressing outward by a foot and flooding the room in natural red light. More hissing follows, the entire wall shifting out and starting to collapse downwards on itself, packing itself into a thick rectangle that rests out of sight. Someone shouts an order on the floor and a loud _thunk_ sounds, echoing, as the gun slides down and starts pivoting into position. Alastor leans forward, eyes darting between the view of a distant city and the moving rifle and the flickering computers and data systems below. The barrel clicks into place and starts tilting, lowering itself outside of the open wall, obscuring the view of the rocky landscape.

Something clicks in his mind. "Are we in a _mountain_?"

“Heheheh...What do you think, Alassstor?” Pentious chortles to himself, clearly amused by just how stunned Alastor is acting. “What, did you think I just _had_ a massive sniper canon sticking out of the ground in plain sight?”

"No, but-" He shifts closer to him, trying to get a better view. The cannon glistens in the red light of the morning. " _God_ it's... massive. How long did it take to make?"

“About 2 years, if memory serves right.” He chuckles softly, leaning against the railing down towards the many computers surrounding the canon’s chassis, lifting his hand toward his mouth in an effort to make his voice be heard. “How long till launch?!”

A worker startles and looks up at him, quickly grabbing the hardhat on their head. "It, uh, should be going once we finish double check the coordinates and diagnostics! Just a few minutes, Sir!"

Alastor looks down, considering to ask another question, but merely shakes his head and leans on the railing. "How far is this going to shoot again?"

“Ohh, about roughly 5,000 miles, give or take maybe 1000 considering the _exact_ distance.” He chuckles at that, grinning in a smug and pleased fashion.

“And how precise is it?” He eyes the barrel, which he can only imagine is small for its overall size. Long, too, which means _fast_ . It takes a moment for the distance to click with him. Twice as long as the entirety of the Mississippi River. “ _Christ_.”

“Heheh..Oh, it’s precise enough to hit a single building and _only_ a single building, if I wanted it to. But no. I’m going to give these _fools_ , whoever they are, a full tasssste of what happens when they try to take what is _mine_.” His eyes narrow in fiendish delight, hood unfurling to it’s full capacity.

Alastor glances at him, sees the eagerness on his face, and if he were anyone lesser, he’d be trembling at the sight. This is a man with nearly everything he ever wanted at his fingertips, a man who didn’t _have_ to punish people for their actions but did, and more for pleasure than for true punitive standard. This is a man who knows he can kill and _does_ , all with a smile on his face.

In a few ways, it reminds Alastor of himself. And he could never say no to a smile like that.

_“Clear the deck!”_

The rifle begins whirring, something within it powering up, and all the workers scatter to whatever nearest door or safe distance they can manage.

Within an instant, the room is instantly flooded with a bright, sharp, brilliant light that’s almost _blinding_ , and a sharp, rattling sound that almost reminds Alastor as a crack of lightning rips through his eardrums, roaring through the entire room with a ferocity so intense that it almost felt as if he was actually witnessing the machine exploding and not actually firing anything. But after a long moment of what felt like eternal white light, it slowly faded, and the canon’s long muzzle was visibly tinged with wisps of smoke, like the barrel of a gun after it was fired, and it took Alastor a couple of moments to realize he was not standing anymore, but rather on the ground, slumped down against a wall, ears buzzing, not quite able to hear anything at the moment. 

The only one that he could see in that view was Pentious, still standing, not even a single hair on his head out of place, his hood flared wide, claws clenching the air as he raised them high, and just by the edge of his smile and the way his eyes were squinted closed, he could tell that the man was cackling up a storm. Alastor watches the man, watches as he arches into what is almost certainly a perfect, evil laugh, and wishes that his ears weren’t so prone to being shot deaf by weaponry. He’d always wanted to hear that laugh up close, and here he is, not even three feet away and only hearing the ringing in his ears. Pentious all but bends over laughing, his tail thumping hard enough against the floor for him to feel the vibrations beneath him.

A sweaty, heavy wave of nausea suddenly builds in his throat and head and he shoots a hand to his mouth, forcing himself to hold back. It feels like a weight is consolidating itself on his chest, trying to keep him from breathing, and he tries to take deep breaths to even himself out. The gun heaves back into its upright position just beyond the lovely silhouette of Sir Pentious.

It seems to take a few moments for Pentious to calm down from his cackling, his claws clenching against the railing of the balcony, seeming to take a few deep breaths before turning around, the haze of the dark crimson skies almost seeming to glow around Pentious’s hood, making it shimmer within the light, and all Alastor can see is the grin upon his face. But then his hood drops, as does his grin, and he moves to slither closer, his lips moving, but still unable to make it out. He inches closer, lips moving again, before waving a hand in front of his face. Alastor flinches back at the close movement of his hand to his face, bringing a hand up reflexively to bat him away, point at his ears right as the nausea seems to double, and he’s certain that some kind of gagging noise passes from his throat but he still can’t hear it. Pentious straightens up, his eyes going wide, and he seems to backpedal a touch, no doubt a sign that the gagging was most definitely heard, and his hood flares up in alarm, almost seeming to freeze as if he was a deer caught in the headlights of a car. The feeling passes after a moment, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded, and he sags against the wall a touch, a dim sense of hearing starting to ebb its way back to him. He swallows, taking another deep breath.

He can see Pentious’s eyes narrow slowly and he begins to lean forward just a touch. “...stor? Al....? If you vomit all over...floor, gigglemug.....cut your paycheck.”

“I’m....” It feels like too much effort to get a single word out, and he feels the nausea creep in along the edge of his mouth. “Dizzy.”

“Shit..” He seems to reach a hand forward, but then pulls it back just as quickly, his tail seeming to give an uncertain lash, his face looking a touch annoyed, lips pulled into a scowl while his hat almost seems to have a concerned frown on his face, staring at him with a look more akin to worry. Alastor recognizes the look, or, more precisely, the response, and weakly holds out his hand, the feeling fuzzy and distant and imprecise.

Pentious blinks at the sight, and moves to grab it with both of his hands, slowly moving to pull him up, lifting him back up to his feet. He feels Pentious’s claws brush over his shoulders, as if trying to dust off his clothes, before he pulls back, his hood starting to relax now, voice coming in a bit clearer. “You alright?”

His stomach curls at the sudden change in height, but he deals with it, taking a moment to close his eyes as he settles on his feet. He barely feels the touches to his clothes. “I... may be a bit nauseous, but... nothing to worry about, I’m sure!” He gives him a wide grin.

“Nauseous?” He blinks at that, and he frowns, his hands raising up but then dropping in indecision, grimacing a touch. “You...You _did_ hit your head pretty hard on the wall..Do you feel anything else? Are you bleeding?”

“Not... sure. My senses... are rather frazzled.” He feels that weight on his chest again but now it burns like alcohol poured on an open wound. He takes a more shallow breath to ease the discomfort.

“Hmm..” Pentious seems to shift a touch, glancing nervously back toward the canon before back towards him. “If you feel woozy or like you’re going to pass out, tell me or your team, alright?”

Alastor nods, taking another breath and putting a hand on his arm. “I feel woozy and.. like I’m going to pass out.”

“..Oh.” His expression almost seems to pale (if that was even possible) at that before he moves to slowly rest a hand on his back. “Perhapsss you should rest for a little before you decide to go anywhere..”

“I... think I’ll second that-” His legs give way under him and he grabs at Pentious’ arms as his vision spirals. He pants, almost gasping for breath, and his head goes light, eyes fluttering and rolling back in his head.

“Alastor!” The last thing he hears is Pentious’s voice as his entire body practically gives out, and within seconds, his consciousness is gone.

•••

He feels heavy and warm, uncomfortably so, and he finds the thought funny given his life on Earth. And maybe also his residency in Hell. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t open his eyes - mostly because he can’t feel enough energy or motivation in him to do even these small tasks. He can feel a blanket over him, trapping in more of the heat, and stiff sheets under him. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable. There’s something vaguely moist on his forehead. The smell of sanitizer and cleanliness fills his nostrils and the sound of voices filter to his ears.

“...not a head injury! What makes you think it’s a head injury?”

“The fact that he _sssslammed_ his head into a wall?”

“Pentious, you had the man stand next to the equivalent of a magical _nuke_.”

“...Really? You think it was...?”

“I _know_ it was.”

Right. Right, he had been with Pentious watching... He recalls the flash, the sudden pressing feeling on his chest and the everything else that is still clinging to him. His hands curl against the sheets. He must have passed out, and Pentious must have brought him to a clinic of some sort. How embarrassing. He cracks his eyes open, slowly, wincing at the intensity of the lights. He sees the shape of a black cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, just a couple feet away from a painfully white cot that he was now resting in, and thankfully there wasn’t didn’t appear to be kind of needle or anything buried into his arm. He hears the sound of shoes clacking, the sound of beeping machines, all sorts of things that one would generally hear within a hospital.

“So I can see Nora....” His words come out a bit slurred, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “....but did I actually hear Pentious, or am I a touch delusional at the moment?”

Nora’s head instantly lifts up and moves to snap toward him, and not long after that, Pentious also moves into his field of vision, eyes going wide, before he lets out a sigh and moves to slither towards him. “I was _wondering_ when you were going to wake up. You were knocked out for 3 hoursss!” 

“Don’t nag him, Sir. It’s not like it’s _his_ fault.” Nora moves to walk towards his cot as well, and it’s there that he sees the large mug, around the same size as a beer mug, of what looks to be a thick _purple_ milkshake in her hand.

"Yeah, Pentious, it's not my fault. I don't even know what went wrong." He smirks cheekily at his boss, chuckling lightly before wincing at an odd pain in his chest. "Geh. Okay, actually, what's the diagnosis? This is... highly uncomfortable."

“Well, considering how you basically stood 20 feet away from a supercharged laser blast, I’d have to say your body went into a little bit of a snapback episode. Do you still feel nauseous?” She tilts her head toward him, leaning down towards him a bit.

"Snapback...?" He doesn't feel incredibly ravenous or ready to tear into someone's throat with his own teeth. He didn't use any magic either. Maybe that had something to do with it. "Erm, yes. Not quite as much as before, but still... enough."

“Mm...” She tilts her head a bit farther, her head now completely sideways. “Like you’re about to vomit or you’re hungry?”

"Would it be weird if I said both?" He grins again, ignoring a small stab of pain in his chest. "It's like I could snack, but the idea makes me want to vomit."

“Hmm...Odd..” She slowly holds the mug out to him. “Try taking just a sip of this, then. If you vomit, we’ll wait until you can stomach it.”

He pushes himself a touch upright, wincing as his dizziness and exhaustion increase. He takes the mug gingerly. "What is it?"

“It’s a certain brew I concocted about...20 years ago. Meant to aid in magical regeneration as well as soothe any adverse effects to snapback.” She flashes her pearly sharp-toothed grin.

“I wasn’t aware that was something possible to make.” He brings the mug to his lips and takes a tiny sip. His ears twitch and he coughs, but he manages to swallow it down.

“Neither did I, at first. But I find its effects to be quite useful.” She shifts her head to look him over with a singular eye. “And considering how you passed out like that, I’d figure you need it. Some people tend to get...adverse effects from Pentious’s more advanced weapons at times, almost like an allergic reaction, except this time you can actually get rid of it with enough time to adapt to it. So, hopefully this won’t happen _every_ time we fire a laser around here.”

Pentious’s tongue flickers dubiously, but he seems to stay quiet for the moment.

“Ah. I see.” He licks his lips and eyes the concoction, the taste sticking to his tongue. After a short moment, he brings the mug back to his lips and forces down another gulp. “I can be a bit sensitive to magic at times, admittedly. It’s actually something that’s helped me track people in the past.” He takes another sip, cringing at the taste.

“Oh?” She swivels her head to face him with her other eye. “How so?”

He cringes again, evidently talking too much to make amends for shoving this medicine down his throat. “I’m not sure how to explain it in words others would understand, but the basic idea of everyone having their own.... flavor of magic?” He glances between Pentious and Nora. “I can sense it. And more than the average joe _knowing_ there’s magic nearby.”

Pentious’s hood almost seems to twitch at that, as if it was about to unfurl itself but was stopped short at the last second, and even Nora, practically stone faced with her mask, almost seems to jerk a touch, before she lifts a hand to tap the edge of her beak. “Hmm..Interesting...”

“As I said, it’s difficult to explain the exact details about it, but...” He glances between them, blinking a few times until he sees the odd wisps of red and black coming from them. He could almost smell something spicy and something fruity in the air, but he couldn’t tell which one it was coming from. He shrugs, taking another sip of the concoction and sticking his tongue out afterward. “Blegh. What _is_ this? It’s so _sweet_.”

“Heh. Can’t exactly go telling you the recipe, now can I?” She does tilt her head again, even with that grin of hers. “Not a fan of vanilla, I take it?”

“Not a fan of _sweet.”_ He wrinkles his nose. “Probably doesn’t help that I haven’t had sugar in over a decade.”

“Hmm. Well I can think of one man who’d certainly have a disagreement with you in that regard.” She turns her head toward Pentious, flashing a cheeky grin.

The man himself merely crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, tongue flickering out again in an idle hiss. “Oh, _ha ha,_ very funny. Jusssst _hilarious.”_

Alastor snickers, smirking at him. “Maybe I’ll have to bring in some beignets in the future.” He swallows down a massive gulp just to get it over with faster.

“Hmm..” He seems to narrow his eyes at that but doesn’t bother actually answering, moving to take out a pocket watch from his coat to flip it open and look it over. “..Do you think you can sssstill work today? Or do you think you need another break?”

“No, no! I am entirely ready to work today. I _need_ to work.” He straightens, waving a hand. “One little fainting spell is not going to keep me down. And I’m excited to actually do something rather than galavanting around speakeasies, as much fun as they can be.”

Pentious blinks at that, shifting a touch, his hood twitching again in obvious surprise, before he narrows his eyes. “Are you certain about that?”

“Positively!” He brings his hand to his chest. “I heal incredibly quickly anyways, and I know snapbacks aren’t the exact same as usual injuries, but, I assure you, if this really is one, it’s the most tame one I’ve had in all my time in Hell. Though the initial hit was quite the doozy.” He sips more of the drink, starting to cringe a bit less.

“Is this sort of...sssensitivity to magic a regular occurrence for you?” He shifts to give him a slight glare, tongue flickering out in disapproval. “That would have been useful to know earlier when I was firssst interviewing you.”

“Oh, well, it rarely ever comes up.” He shrugs. “It’s...” He makes a face and rolls his eyes. “God’s sense of humor. It’s like I have the nose of a dog or something. It’s always there and it’s so _obvious_ to me that it’s easy to forget about it. After all, would you tell people you can smell with your tongue? No, it’s simply natural for you at this point.”

His tongue, which was in mid-flick, pauses for a moment before sharply retracting, and his eyes narrow a bit more. “...I suppose I see your point..” He moves to turn around. “Well, if you’re feeling ready to ssstart, Loralai and Jasmine will be waiting for you in the tram station. Once you all get to the surface, you’ll need to travel to your assigned cargo posts for the day and transssport them to where they need to go.”

“Sounds lovely.” Alastor watches as he starts slithering off. “Have a nice day!” He gulps down the rest of his milkshake.

•••

“Ah, Mr. Valentine! A good day to you!” A tall, older looking demon with seven arms and purple and yellow scales stands behind a counter, glass cases displaying ice cream barrels on either side of her. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Long month?”

Valentino rolls his eyes and sighs good naturedly, glancing at Vox as the bell on the door stops ringing. “Ventriloquist. She has nickname privileges.” He grins at her and walks up to the counter. “Things have been busy, yeah. I hope things have been busy for you too?”

She points to the roof with a smirk, her one big eye giving him a coy stare. “Enough for a raise. For our most loyal customer, of course.”

“Huh. Come here a lot, don’t you?” Vox can’t help but smirk a touch at that, turning his head as he examines the place. It was surprisingly well-kept for a place that was knee-deep in the City’s streets, very clean, though the place was strikingly empty. Either it must have been a slow day or customers were few and far between.

“Oh, he’s been coming here for _years.”_ Ventriloquist moves back to grab a waffle cone bowl, setting it inside a ceramic bowl and starting to douse the insides with caramel, chocolate syrup, and sprinkles. “I imagine you want the usual? Or are you changing things up on me again?”

“The usual is fine.” He chuckles, leaning against the counter. “And anything he wants.”

“Of course! Take a look around and tell me want you want, hon.” She moves to the ice cream and starts scooping out mint chocolate chip. “We’ve got all the toppings, all the flavors, all the cones. Name it, it’s yours. Sundaes and milkshakes too. _Fresh_ bananas that just came in a few days ago. _To die for._ Again!” She laughs at her own joke.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” Vox feels his screen buzz a touch at the realization that he hadn’t picked anything yet, his cheeks getting a tad warm, his eyes glancing down toward the many barrels of ice cream that were all staring back at him from behind the glass, and he feels himself bite his lip. “Mm...” His eyes glance back and forth between the chocolate and the cookie dough, feeling himself become quite torn.

Valentino watches him, grinning softly. “Anything you want, guy. I mean it.”

Ventriloquist grabs the chocolate syrup and douses the mint chocolate in it, then moves to start scooping pistachio ice cream on top. “Do you want the shredded nuts on top too, deary?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, why not?” Valentino grins at her again.

Vox blinks at that, staring down at the ice cream for a moment, before a grin overtakes his face, and he lifts his head up. “Can you do double scoops on a cone?”

She looks up and smirks at him. “My highest record is sixteen scoops on a cone. You can have as much as you want, darling. As many flavors as you want too.”

That gets him to laugh a touch, and his grin only widens. “Jesus, what the hell kind of person decided to get _sixteen_ scoops?”

Valentino snorts, covering his face as he poorly holds back chuckles.

Ventriloquist raises her brow. “Wanna take a wild guess?”

Vox’s eyes snap over to him and his jaw drops for a moment before he raises a hand and starts jabbing him in the arm with a claw, grinning all the while. “You better fucking explain yourself right now, old man! Am I hearing things right? You? _Heart Eyes McGee_ went on an ice cream binge?”

He breaks out laughing, unable to contain himself, and weakly bats his hand away. “Please, I-” He snickers, dropping his head back, pulls himself back together, and clears his throat. “I had a really, really bad hangover in the thirties. Let’s just say I’ll never try moonshine ever again.”

 _“Jesus Christ.”_ He shakes his head with a laugh and turns back toward Ventriloquist, smirking. “Only two scoops on my cone. Chocolate and cookie dough, please.”

She looks like she’s holding back a laugh as well, and slides the completed bowl onto the counter for Valentino. “Of course, dear. Do you want any toppers? Whipped cream is handmade.”

“Hmmm...” He narrows his eyes a touch at that, before smirking. “Sure, why not?”

“Good choice.” She winks and sets off to gather his order.

Valentino is still chuckling, even as he grabs his bowl and starts nibbling on the pistachio ice cream. “If you want a taste of mine, I’m certainly fine with sharing, just so you know.”

“Blegh, no way.” He quickly sticks out his tongue as a show of disgust, which visibly slides down past the frame of his screen. “You really eat _pistachio ice cream?”_

“Yeah! You know how creamy they make this stuff? It’s ridiculous. And the salt? Mm. To die for.” He grabs an extra large scoop just for the sake of it.

“Eugh, I think all that moonshine damaged your tongue.” He shakes his head at that. “What’s next, you also eat _strawberry?”_

Valentino pauses at that, giving him a look, swallowing. “Do you... do you _not_ like strawberries?”

“You talking the fruit or the ice cream?”

“Both?” He smirks. “I can maybe see not liking the ice cream, but the fruit is absolutely non-negotiable. It’s amazing.”

“Well tough shit because I don’t like either.” He smirks right back, eyes narrowing, smugly.

“Ohohoho, no way.” Valentino shakes his head and spoon at him. “How can you not like strawberries?”

Ventriloquist walks up to them and holds out a cone with two large scoops and a mountain of whipped cream. “Chocolate and cookie dough on a cone.”

“Thanks.” He moves to take the cone and immediately moves to taste at the whip cream that was sitting pretty on top of the chocolate cone, the cream itself somehow not getting smeared all over his screen, and he licks his lips with a pleased grin. “Mmm.” He glances back toward Val, and chuckles. “Because strawberries are gross. Duh.”

He snorts at him, at the ridiculousness of not liking strawberries and the ridiculousness of him tasting whipped cream before saying such a thing so matter of factly. “Okay, okay. You have your tastebuds, I have mine. I’m willing to call a truce on that.”

“Oh, are you?” He smirks even wider at that, chuckling and shaking his head. “Whatever you say.” He moves to lick up the rest of the cream before taking a chunk out of the chocolate scoop with his teeth.

“God, you really are a monster.” Valentino snickers, setting a card on the counter and beckoning him over to one of the tables to have a seat. “Come on, you goofball. We’ve been walking and standing enough for the day. Take a load off.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Vox moves over to sit in the chair that’s closest to the window, taking another chomp out of the scoop, his screen somehow not smudging or smearing despite the fact that a good 99% of his face is nothing but glass.

“I’ve gotta be honest, it’s pretty interesting watching you eat.” Valentino takes his own seat across from him and munches on some more ice cream and pistachio flakes.

That gets Vox to freeze, and his screen almost seems to buzz for a moment, wobbling, as if the picture was ready to snap off. His cheeks start turning a soft pink, and he glances up at him with a raised brow. “..Has it been? I’m just eating.”

“Yeah, but, y’know, screen and everythin’. Kinda reminds me of an optical illusion or something.” He smirks at him.

“Hm..” He lifts up a hand to touch the side of his head. “I guess I’m just used to it? I dunno how it works. I just...eat like I normally do.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Hell does that to people.” He watches him, smiling softly, and starts digging into some of his mint chocolate chip.

A flash fills the sky outside, the crimson light momentarily turned whitish blue as something brilliantly streaks over the city. A snapping, whip-like sound cracks through like a rumble of lightning, shortly followed the shuddering of the ground beneath their feet and the rattling of windows and glassware. Valentino slowly drops his spoon from his mouth, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“Holy _shit.”_

Vox’s screen is practically buzzing up a storm, and for a moment, his face is obscured entirely by static, but then, just as quick as it comes, it fades, and it’s a miracle that the cone isn’t dropped or crushed. His eyes are wide, nigh petrified, his antenna sparking like mad with wisps of blue static slingshotting between them, and he’s staring right at Valentino, not even moving to look out the window. “...What...the _fuck…_ was _that?”_

“I - I don’t know, it looked like a - like electricity or something? But not?” He stands and walks up to the window beside Vox, staring at a straight line of bluish white energy tracing through the sky. “That can’t be a fuckin’ laser. That’s _too_ fucking big....” He looks down at Vox. “Are you alright? Did that thing fuck with you at all?”

“..I...I dunno..” Vox looks like he’s shaking, his claws trembling, and he runs a hand over his antenna, trying to silence the spark between them. “It..I..” He’s still quivering, and it takes a moment for him to speak. “It..It felt like getting hit by a fucking train.”

“Hey, hey, breathe with me, alright?” Val bends down to him, gently bringing a hand around Vox’s. “In.... out...”

“I..I’m fine..I’m fine..” He squeezes his eyes shut, and the cone finally drops from his hand and onto the table the moment another wave of static overtakes his screen, and he clutches his now free hand to the side of his head. _“Hhh...”_ His claws squeeze down on Val’s hand, and he notably takes in a deeper breath this time.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright, okay?” He reaches with one of his hands to pull a chair over, taking a moment to glance out at the slowly fading streak of light. “I’m here, yeah? You’re safe.”

“I..I know..” His hand squeezes down again, and he finally shudders, his hand relaxing again, the static and electric buzz finally fading away for good. He takes a few moments to breath, shaking ever so slightly, before finally letting out a heavy sigh, and the top of his screen leans forward to rest against Val’s shoulder. “...God dammit...”

“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Valentino rubs his back, letting him lean against him. “Take all the time you need.” He breathes evenly for him, looking outside as the windows across the street snap open and heads turn toward the streak in the sky. Something deep in him shudders, mind sorting through a jumble of questions about where that laser had been heading, how many people are dead, who had sent it in the first place.

“..Do you have any idea what that was?” He mumbles softly against his shoulder, quietly, his claws still shaking within his hand.

“I... I think it was a laser.” He rubs his back in small circles. “A really, really big laser.”

“..What the _fuck_ kind of laser feels like _that?”_ He shudders, lifting his head, now rubbing a hand over his antenna again. “..C..Can you sense magic? Did you feel any magic in that?”

“I... I think? I’d have to go outside to make sure, get a better feel from the air.” He looks him over. “Are you alright?”

“It..I don’t _think_ it was a panic attack? I mean, I think it partially was, but mostly from what I felt?” He sighs again, his eyes looking wide, shocked. “It...It, no joke, felt like I was standing in front of a train. Like, a full on train. A big one. A massive one. A train of _magic,_ some _really_ potent shit.”

“You’re more hooked into the network. Could it have been that?” Valentino brings a hand up to the side of his face. “I’m not seeing any issues with your screen, but you were bugging out quite a bit earlier.”

“I..I dunno. I didn’t _feel_ the power grid take a hit. I didn’t feel anything in the city go out. No power plants, no circuits, nothing that would indicate an outage.”

“Well...” He frowns for a moment, thinking. “Stay here for a moment. I’m gonna poke my head outside, see if I can get any kind of read on the situation. Ventriloquist?”

She pokes her head up from behind the counter. “Y-yes?”

“Do you have any drinks?”

“Drinks?” She straightens more. “Oh, yes! Do you want anything specific?”

“Surprise me.”

She scurries off.

“..Alright. Yeah. Of course.” Vox slowly moves to let go of Val’s hand, his other one still resting on the side of his screen, as if clutching a temple.

“Just try and unwind a little, get drunk off your ass if need be. I’ll take care of ya.” He hesitates for a moment, then stands up and hurries out the door, chittering almost as soon as he steps foot outside.

Vox watches him as he practically slams the door shut behind him, and after a moment,he lets himself laugh weakly, ever so slightly, a hand dragging down his face as he does so. “Ahh...Don’t hurt yourself, old man...” He glances back down toward the table, sees his now ruined ice cream staring back at him, and can’t help but pout a touch. “Well, that sucks..”

“Don’t you worry about that, deary.” Ventriloquist walks back into the room with a selection of beers, whiskeys, vodkas, and wines in her arms and starts walk toward the table next to him with them in tow. “I can get you some more if you want.”

“Heh...That would be nice. Maybe also put it in a bowl this time? Just to be safe?” He flashes a weak grin.

“Yeah, of course, dear!” She beams at him, setting the bottles down before heading back over to the ice cream. “He’s a good catch, you know. Everyone finds him to be a bit uptight, but he’s still got a heart and all. Somewhere in there.”

“Heh, yeah, I don’t doubt..” His grin drops a touch and he feels his screen buzz as his cheeks flush. _“C-Catch?”_

“Aren’t you two...?” Her eye widens. “Oh! I just thought, with all the banter, and he was being so gentle with you - he’s not like that very often, you know?” She drops another scoop into the bowl she’s holding. “You two just seem so familiar with each other. And you got him to laugh so easily. I’ve never seen him so laid back.”

He feels himself flush even harder, his screen buzzing with how red it was, and he can’t help but stare at her as if she had just grown two heads. He looks down at his hand, the one Val had been clutching, then back towards her, then back down at his hand. “...Does it really seem that way?”

“I mean...” She glances outside at Valentino, who‘s still standing outside the shop, and then adds a few more scoops of ice cream before grabbing a cone, smooshing it into the ice cream, and plopping some whipped cream on top. She walks back over to her and slides the bowl to him, sitting in the seat next to him. “I’ve known Val for a long time, since he was new around here. He was always pretty distant with people, but he had his reasons. And back in the twenties, he... got kinda flirty with a guy who used to work here.” She smirks. “He probably won’t ever tell you about it because it was a whole disaster right from the start, but he was head over heels for the guy. Couldn’t say a single word right to save his life.”

“Heh...Oh yeah?” That gets him to smirk a touch too, trying to imagine what exactly Valentino at his beginning years was like, though he can still feel his cheeks burning. “Who was the guy?”

“Just an average joe.” She shrugs, a sad look crossing over her face. “Didn’t die much longer after Val, just wanted to make a living down here. I’m not sure if anything ever happened between them, but he, uh, he didn’t last all too long. Someone with an angel blade got him in... ‘29, I think? I don’t know what happened, but Val took it pretty hard, blamed himself.” She looks at the bottles in front of her and grabs a beer, cracking it open against the table. “He told me once that he’d never fall in love again, but it...” She laughs a little and shakes her head. “The guy’s gotten his heart broken without even saying a word, as far as I’m concerned. He gets a certain way when he _wants_ to say he’s in love but he’s too scared to and... I dunno. Maybe I’m just seeing things, but... I dunno. He’s real nice on you.” She leans back, shrugging, and takes a swig of beer.

“..Hmm..” He glances back out toward the window, feeling his heart seeming to beat a touch harder in his chest. He decides to distract himself from all the buzzing in his mind by scooping up the spoon and starting to devour his ice cream proper this time.

“Just a thought, alright?” She puts a hand on his shoulder, standing again. “I’m gonna get some glasses. He’s probably gonna want the whiskey...”

“Yeah, probably.” He glances back out the window again as Ventriloquist disappears behind a room, letting out a deep sigh, his cheeks still flushing. “..Quite the persistent thought, then.”

•••

“What is this place and why is it so loud?” Alastor’s ears twitch, hearing the sounds of saw blades whirring and heavy metal clanking coming from within a large warehouse looking building that he, Loralai, and Jasmine are heading toward. Garage doors, mostly just slats of corrugated metal, line one side of the building, a few exposing large, industrial sized semis. Another almost identical building stands a couple dozen feet away from them. Demons buzz around, hauling crates and tools here and there. Alastor tilts his head to the side. “I’ll have you all know I prefer _U-Haul_ much better than _I_ haul.”

“When we said we were going to be transporting precious cargo, did you think we would be _walking?”_ Loralai spins around in order to face him with a smirk, walking backwards confidently, without even breaking a sweat. “You _do_ know that the Boss _makes_ cars and trucks and all that stuff, right?”

“Oh, sure, he’s a mechanical genius, no doubt about it.” He flicks his gaze to her, then back to the depot. “It’s one of his vehicular facilities, then?” He raises a brow at the massive trucks and points at one. “And we’re taking one of those?”

 _The easiest way to ship materials without garnering unwanted attention is to use shipping trucks._ Jasmine shrugs lightly. _It’s a good thing Pentious ships all of his own products. Everything is hidden from the eyes of the public._

“Is that ok with you? Or do you have a phobia of the damn things or something?” Loralai herself tilts her head, smirking a touch.

His rolls his eyes, though he grins. "No, I'm merely surprised to see something of his _above ground_ for once. Aside from his airships, of course. Next thing I know, I'll be figuring out that he has a whole naval fleet as well."

“Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t.” She smirks at him, almost knowingly. “He _does_ have other facilities across the continents after all.”

“I can tell.” He remembers the words overheard on the phone call just moments before Pentious had ordered his cannon to fire. It sounded close enough to _European_ for him to put the pieces together. His stomach has long since stopped bugging him, but his mind is still having issues wrapping itself around the idea.

“Heheh. Have you ever been outside of this part of Hell?” She turns back around to face forwards, walking toward one of the open trucks that were sitting pretty in the garage doorways. “I’ve heard about places here and there. Big cities and whatnot. Some below ground, there’s one inside a huge mountain, that kind of stuff.”

“I’ve never left Hell, no. Never saw a need to. Besides, isn’t the ocean replaced with deserts, lava, and frequent earthquakes? Hardly sounds reasonable to leave.” He picks at lint on his vest and smooths it down before tucking his arms behind his back.

 _“I’ve heard rumors of towns popping up in the deserts, and something like a forest if you head further north.”_ Jasmine skirts around a busy worker that passes through their group. _“It’d definitely be interesting to see what’s out there.”_

“Oh yeah, definitely. Sure, there’s a lot of shit down here that deliberately wants to kill you, but, hey, how is that any different from Earth, am I right?” She throws up her arms a little in a little jazz hands motion, clearly an attempt at cracking a joke.

Alastor hums. “Having spent a vast majority of my childhood wrestling crocodiles, I think I _have_ to agree with you on that one.”

Jasmine head’s practically cracks toward him at that, though it’s off a touch, and Loralai silently reaches over to poke her in the cheek to turn her head just enough so it’s facing him more accurately. _“Wrestling crocodiles? Good God, where exactly did you grow up again?”_

“Oh please, that’s nothing, Jaz. I grew up in _Australia._ Half of the time I went to put on shoes I’d have to shake them just to check that no giant spiders crawled into them at night.”

“Louisiana, to answer your question.” Alastor smirks at the both of them. “I usually had to watch out for snakes rather than spiders, though.”

“Oh yeah, snakes were bad too. But you always had to watch out for those stupid scorpions, right? The scorpions were the _worst_ out of them all. Second only to the wasps. Ugh.” She shudders, even as they finally get within distance of one of the trucks, moving to pull out a ring of keys out of her pants pocket, twirling them around a finger.

“Scorpions?” He raises a brow. “No, I don’t believe so. Though I can agree on the bees and wasps. We had so many killer bee colonies when I was a teen....” His eyes catch on the keys. “I take it you usually drive?”

“Yeah, usually. Why? Do you want to drive?” She glances toward him at that, pausing her key twirling, as if preparing to toss them to him.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He laughs, waving his hands, and glances at the size of the truck. “I’ve only ever driven small sports models before. I wouldn’t know where to begin with something this massive.” He decidedly leaves out the number of trees he’s hit in the past.

“Ah, gotcha.” She chuckles a touch. “Probably a good thing then. I hear up above folks have to take classes in order to drive things this big. Luckily I learned from experience.” She flashes a cheeky grin at that, before moving around to the other side of the truck to unlock the door to the driver’s seat. “Now, the thing is, trucks this big are liable to get jumped because people want what’s in them. They basically see the damn things as walking treasure chests and shit. So your job, Al, is to go sit in the back with Jasmine while we drive over to the assigned pick-up point to get the cargo. Then you have to sit with the cargo, make sure it’s all secure, and, more importantly, that no idiots try to break in and steal it.”

“I see.” He rubs his chin, considering it, and glances at Jasmine after a moment. “I imagine that means weaponry?”

_“If you need one, they’re available. Each truck has its own stock, but there isn’t anything fancy. If you want something with lasers, you’d have to pass it by Pentious first.”_

“Alrighty. I’ll pull out the truck and we can get things going.” There was the slam of the truck’s door as Loralai climbs into the seat, and after a moment, the pipes lining the sides of the driver’s section of the truck let loose a soft trail of smoke as it’s engine flares up, and after a moment, it begins to pull itself out of the garage.

Alastor and Jasmine step back, watching the truck ease out into the open, and then walk up to the back end as it slows down. The pressure of Jasmine using his eyes picks up and he blinks a few time to get used to the feeling. She grabs the handle of the door, unlatches it, and swings one open. The dim interior is filled with crates, secured by netting on either side of the storage container, leaving a small corridor in the middle. _“After you.”_

“Thank you, darling.” He heaves himself into the back and holds a hand out for her, which she takes, and pulls her up.

_“Loralai will come around to lock up, and then we’ll be off.”_

“Sounds lovely.” Alastor grins widely at her.

Jasmine’s face is immobile, but the way her tail flickers seems to indicate that she’s smiling too. _“If I may ask, what exact weapon will you use? I don’t really prefer that of firearms, but if you plan to use one..”_

“Oh, really?” He glances around, seeing a metal crate off to the side, and walks over to it. “I tend not to use them either, but they come in handy on occasion. I’ve only really used pistols and rifles before.”

 _“Heh. I suppose all three of us are in that same boat then. If you decide to use a gun, try not to shoot me by accident.”_ Her tail flicks, indicating it’s all in jest.

He chuckles, kneeling to open the crate and raising a brow at what he sees. “Berries.” He picks up a handgun, sleek, metal except for the wooden finish on the handle. He slides the clip out, finding it full, and clicks it back into place. “This is ridiculously similar to the one I used in the Great War.” He looks into the crate again, eyeing the rifle. “And that one’s almost a spinoff of a Springfield, minus the bolt. Intriguing.”

 _“Pardon me, but did you just say ‘berries’?”_ She sounds close to laughing, and her shoulders quiver, like she’s already giggling.

“Yes! Berries!” He holds up his pistol for a moment as if to display some prized trophy, then lowers it again, fiddling with the mechanisms. “Have you never heard it before?”

_“No, I don’t believe so. Is it that gun you’re holding?”_

“Yes, but no.” He chuckles and stands, putting his hands at his hips. “It’s like saying... _Amazing!_ Sorta like the bee’s knees.”

Loralai’s head pops into the cabin. “Is there a reason I’m hearing so much about fruit?”

Alastor gives her a look. “I understand I’m old, but neither of you are much younger if I have my dates right.”

Loralai’s grin only grows more toothy, almost smug. “What time did you die again?”

He blinks at her. “1933. Why?”

Jasmine’s shoulders shake again, and despite not having a face, she seems almost just as smug. “1895.”

 _“What!?”_ His eyes widen comically. “You’re from the nineties? You don’t act a day over the forties! I act more nineties and that’s when I was _born.”_

 _“Hehehe. I’ll admit I don’t tend to play the part, but I was never one for sticking to my age. After all, why would I_ want _to? The nineties weren’t exactly the best for those like me anyways.”_

“The nineties were pretty horrible, yes.” Alastor nods at that one.

Loralai snickers. “Alright, you two. I’m closing up so we can get on the road. Get cozy, and, Al?” She narrows her eyes on him. “Don’t shoot my girlfriend.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” He beams at her.

She snickers a bit harder, and with a quick motion of her arms, the door of the truck’s cabin is slammed shut, and the sound of a click makes it clear that the lock was also slid into place.

Alastor's eyes glow in the dark as he closes the lid on the chest next to him, then turns his eyes back on Jasmine. "Ninety-five? I'd never have guessed."

 _“To be fair, it was a conscious decision on my part. You wouldn’t be able to tell unless I told you.”_ She tilts her head at that. _“You on the other hand..You dress the part.”_

He smirks. "I'd be wearing a monocle too, if I hadn't lost it! I was wearing one in the thirties, even."

 _“Interesting. I take it you found your life to be a good one? Well, good for_ you, _I mean.”_ She tilts her head, and her tail flicks. _“What with the whole serial killer thing.”_

"Oh, definitely! I had a grand ol' time on Earth, and I continue to down here!" He sits down on the lid of the chest, a faint hint exuding from him. "Almost everything about living that I enjoyed came with me, so I can't complain much."

 _“Interesting. I almost wish I had that same chance as you, to be honest.”_ She shrugs a touch at that. _“My life, for the most part, was a bit of a..boring one. A dull drag more than anything. From childhood, to teenage years, till my parents finally forced me to get married.”_ Her tail lashes, and it’s clear that she found it to be more distasteful than anything.

"Arranged marriage?" Alastor winces, shaking his head. "Never understood any of those. Did you find a way to escape it?"

_“Yes, indeed. I ran away from him in the middle of the night after all of the chaos finally settled down. It was 1883, you see.”_

"Ah!" One of his fingers snaps into the air. "One of Pentious's air raids, I'm guessing? You were alive during his reign."

 _“Indeed I was.”_ She nods at that, and her tail flicks softly. _“I was actually one of the few people who bothered to see what his actions did to society, what his destruction carved a path towards, and while many called it tyranny...I tended to call it freedom.”_ She shrugs again. _“I knew my views wouldn’t be accepted in my home, so I left, and when Pentious finally died, I was one of the many who refused to let his name die with him.”_

"Really?" He straightens, putting his hands to his sides as the truck jolts and starts moving. "When you got down here, did you try and find him? Or, well, I suppose he wasn't as well-known at the time..." He brings his hand to his chin, considering it.

 _“At first, no. The first few years of my afterlife was mostly spent trying to learn my ways around with my psychic abilities, as well as my blindness. It was...a perilous few years, to be certain.”_ Her tail idly quivers, and she crosses one of her legs.

"I can only imagine. Purges are deadly enough for people whose senses are kept intact."

 _“Yes, indeed. I don’t think I would have survived this long, had it not been for a few kinder souls here and there, offering to give me shelter as I learned to hone my skills.”_ She goes quiet for a moment. _“What about you? How was your few first years in Hell? Not dreadful, I hope.”_

"Oh, no, I was fine, for the most part. It was a cake walk transitioning, aside for these things." He knocks his heels against each other. "Honest to God deer hooves! Had to rework my balance, though I did get used to it rather quick. I'm one of the lucky ones who expected to be thrown down here and got what they asked for." His grin widens and he chuckles. "A brand new field to go galavanting about in. I couldn't even keep track of how many people I killed in my first year down here." Alastor sighs, caught in the reverie. "Ah, good times."

_“Heheh. Well, you know what they say. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Some people come down here and they suffer, others come down here and thrive. I’d rather be the latter than the former.”_

"Oh, the people who suffer are merely in denial! If they accepted what they did, they'd be fine." He waves a hand flippantly. "You know, I considered starting a circus once. Trying to attract all the unwanted types just to see what would happen. I wonder if that would have helped them."

She tilts her head at that. _“A circus?”_

He laughs. "The idea never got much further than that, admittedly! I get bored often. I have a list of things to do to keep me from simply trying to burn everything to the ground when a pass time starts losing its edge for me."

 _“Oh? Like what?”_ Her tail flicks, and she crosses her arms.

"What's on my list?" He leans toward her, brows raised. "Oh, the usual. Crash parties, burn down specific buildings, hunt down certain people, see what weird things I can do with magic, dabble in the arts, try and fly a plane. That sort of thing."

 _“Try to fly a plane?”_ She seems to chuckle at that, shoulders shaking once again. _“How well did that go?”_

"I don't know! I haven't tried it yet!" His grin spreads further across his face as he takes in her laughter. He watches for a few more moments, appreciating how he could practically see the smile on her face despite the lack of a mouth. "What exactly _are_ we shipping, by the by? No one's told me. All I've heard is something about this drop off point we're going to."

Jasmine’s tail flicks at that, and one of her ears also seems to flick. _“We’re apparently transporting weapons from the drop off to one of the many transport operations Pentious has scattered around the West side, meant to smuggle them into the base without anyone seeing them.”_

"You say _apparently_ as if you have a different idea." He tilts his head.

_“Well, that’s the thing. No one knows what these weapons are. The only instructions Pentious ever gives is that it must never be taken or fall into the wrong hands, and that it’s imperative to never ever shake the crates.”_

"Hmm... Could be explosives, if any of my past research is right." He brings a hand to his chin again, staring back at the empty storage container. "He was known for his explosive power, especially with regards to his mortar shells and equivalents. His first mass murder was a result of his first explosive material being tested, in fact." Though she would probably know that, especially if she had truly rallied behind King Cobra back in the day.

_“Ah, yes. He murdered his parents in that explosion, didn’t he?”_

"If the history books are true, yes." Alastor isn't sure if that's actually in the history books or not, but he figures it's good enough to say. He's not sure how _I found one of your revolutionary leader's texts_ would play out. He suddenly recalls something. "Oh, shoot! I meant to ask Pentious about something, but then all the business about the mega laser thing happened. Hmm."

She seems to perk up at that, back straightening in what seems like surprise. _“You mean you saw Pentious’s retaliation to the European branch attack this morning?”_

"I didn't quite _see_ it, but yes, I was with him when he made the call. We had an early meeting to discuss a few things." He leans back a bit. "I passed out from it, which was why I was a little late meeting you and Loralai."

_“Passed out? How could you pass out from something like that?”_

"Apparently some of Pentious's better weaponry can leave demons with certain side effects if you aren't used to them." Alastor rolls his eyes again. "And _I_ was standing right next to the thing."

_“Hmmm. I see. I have heard certain similar things from those that handle Pentious’s more powerful machines. Have to take routine breaks lest they start to fall ill.”_

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He scratches his chin, then runs his hand over the back of his neck. He should trim his hair sometime soon. He laughs after a moment. “I’d say it’s impossible to handle so much magic at one time, if I didn’t actually see it in person. I was knocked off my feet, but Pentious barely even flinched!”

 _“Perhaps it’s one of the perks of being at the threshold of power that he’s gotten to.”_ She tilts her head. _“The more upper-tier soldiers say that he can create explosions just with a point of his finger.”_

“That’d take quite a bit of energy to pull off, but...” He shrugs, smiling widely. “It’s a popular rumor on the streets as well.”

_“Hmmm. People spread rumors of you as well in the base. Small ones, just barely starting to grow. But they’re there. They say that Pentious only let you into the base because he wants you to be his attack dog. Some others think you’re just a crazed lunatic, and that’s saying something considering, well, Hell.”_

The edges of his smile twitch at the mention of canines, and he tilts his head at her, then chuckles as she finishes. “Oh, I’m almost disappointed in myself if that’s _all_ they’re talking about. You could say that about anyone in this wretched place!” He shakes his head, laughing again.

 _“To be fair, not many would willingly rip out a man’s throat with their very own teeth.”_ She tilts her head, and her tail flicks. _“Why_ did _you do that, anyways? They said it happened in the middle of testing.”_

He rolls his eyes, huffing, but he figures there’s no harm in telling a teammate about it. “I was told to perform to my fullest, and someone jumped me while I was in pitch darkness, so I reacted how I would at any other time. My jaws were closer to a major artery, and my teeth are just as effective if not better than my claws.” His arms cross. “What I’d read of Pentious in the past made him out to be a much more ruthless individual than what I anticipated.”

 _“Hmm. There’s a difference between ruthlessness and carelessness. If he went around letting every soldier in his militia kill each other, his operations would fall apart.”_ Her tail flicks a touch. _“Though I don’t necessarily_ blame _you for that kind of mistake. One is so accustomed to killing down here that a reaction like that could easily become muscle memory.”_

“Precisely!” He leans toward her from his impromptu seat. “I‘m honestly somewhat pleasantly surprised about his methods. The more I think about it, the more reasonable it is. Definitely more sustainable than other groups I’ve seen.”

 _“Is that so?”_ She tilts her head. _“How many other groups have you seen?”_

“Seen?” He hums, looking aside again. “Quite a few. I tend to keep tabs on the going-ons of the Overlords, if I’m being entirely honest. Paying attention to politics and all that.”

_“Ah, yes. History with Valentino and whatnot. If I may ask..Is there any reason for that? Most would argue that trying to tussle with Valentino’s mob to be suicide.”_

“Well, it reminds me of life!” He laughs again. “Besides, they’ve only hassled me when I manage to impact ratings or somehow embarrass one of the V’s.” He waves his hand. “Long story short: I have history as a reporter. There’s always someone who doesn’t like a good writer.”

_“I see. Quite the daring one aren’t you? How exactly did you go about surviving for so long down here? First you’re hounded by Valentino, and the Purges that happen every year. And you said you’re from the 30’s.”_

“Looks like you’re rearing to get an interview started. Is there any paperwork I need to sign?” He snickers, leaning back. “Besides, what’s the 30’s to someone such as yourself?”

Her tail seems to flick a bit harder, and she folds her arms against her chest. _“I survived for as long as I have because of the people I know down here. You make it sound like you’ve been going alone since you fell.”_

“Because I have, and it’s easy.” His hand moves to his chest again, and he fixes his bowtie as he feels it at an odd angle. “Sure, I may have one or...” He thinks for a moment. “One person who’s consistently made contact with me through the years, but for the most part I was on my own. I don’t tend to play well with others. Not for long, at any rate.”

 _“One person?”_ She tilts her head again. _“Who?”_

“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes on her. “No one hugely important.”

She’s silent for a moment, and her tail flicks back and forth. Finally, she speaks, quietly, her voice echoing a touch in his head. _“...Any other dangerous reflexes I should watch out for? Wouldn’t want Loralai to punch your teeth in after you accidentally rip out my throat.”_

Alastor watches her for a moment, knowing for a fact that his paper thin lie didn’t get past her and that she’s likely holding the information for future reference. The hair on the back of his neck raises slightly at the sound of her voice. “I’m a bit touch sensitive. Nothing should happen so long as I either expect the touch, initiate it myself, or, better, there is none at all. I doubt I’d kill anyone over it, though.”

 _“Hmmm. Noted.”_ She nods softly, quietly.

"I understand contact more in combat, but I can't assure you that I'd be any less jumpy." He looks over his nails, picking a fleck of dirt from under them.

_“Anything else I should watch out for? Any other sort of triggers that I should avoid?”_

"Hmm...." He smirks. "Don't sass my mother! I think that's it."

 _“Your mother?”_ If she had eyes, she probably would have blinked.

"Yes, my mother." He beams, some tenseness in his shoulders washing away at the mention. "Best mother in the universe! Wouldn't have traded her for anything."

 _“I see. I’ll have to make a note of that.”_ She nods softly, and after a moment, she falls quiet.

He watches her, unsure about her silence, and then remembers what she had said about her own parents, about running away from an arranged marriage. He looks aside, toward the front of the truck where Loralai is driving. "I'm lucky to have had her in life. Just like you're lucky to have _her_ now. It's that luckiness that makes us so protective of them, if you ask me."

Jasmine’s head tilts a touch, and after a moment, she nods softly. _“...Yes, I suppose so. I cannot think of what would happen if I lost her now.”_ She’s quiet for a moment. _“Did your mother live a good life?”_

He considers that. There's a variety of ways to answer the question, but he's never liked toeing the line of half-truths when it came to his mother. He knows the exact look she'd give him if she ever found out. "Not until the end. She deserved better." He looks back at Jasmine, struck by a sudden idea and need to move. "Do you know how to dance?"

Even though she doesn’t have eyes, he gets the distinct impression that she’s staring at him like he suddenly started flailing around like a headless chicken. _“...You’re trying to dodge the subject.”_

He blinks, surprised. "I was just noticing that an empty trailer has ample room for practicing dance moves."

 _“Are you really so itchy to move that you’d want to_ dance _in a moving truck?”_

"I've always been a bit fidgety! You know, I've never owned a car or used public transport until I was down here, and the only time I've used public transport is within the last week." He smirks. "I get bored rather quickly."

_“Well, allow me to give you some advice about trucks. There’s a reason things are tied down in the trailers.”_

At that, the trailer around them almost seems to lean, and there’s a moment where Alastor feels himself start to slide in his seat, while Jasmine keeps herself steady with a hand.

Alastor steadies himself on his makeshift seat, heels clicking against the front, and chuckles. "Sounds like a challenge, then!"

_“If you want to start dancing and proceed to fall and fumble like a bag of potatoes, I’m not going to stop you. I will laugh though.”_

"That's half the point of dancing!" He stands, almost immediately loses his balance, and falls back onto the chest. " _Oof._ Or maybe fate will tell me no."

 _“No no, keep trying. I’ve never heard the sound of a deer falling flat on his ass before.”_ She sounds heavily amused.

He laughs loudly at that and pushes himself upright again, hands on his hips. "Alrighty then! I formally accept your challenge and spit in the face of whatever deity just tried to spite me." He clip-clops a few feet away, judging the distance between the netting. The last thing he needs is a twisted ankle as a result of his own silly shenanigans.

Jasmine doesn’t move, but her head turns in his direction. _“I’m waiting with baited breath. Truly the performance of a lifetime.”_

He clicks his shoes against the ground, testing the sound, and hums a little song on his mind. "I'll be honest, I'm horrible at tap dance, but I've been learning! In other words, make fun of me all you want." He chuckles and starts walking down the aisle, clipping his heels and toes and jumping here and there. The truck wavers and he skips a little to the left to compensate.

 _“If you don’t tap dance, then why do you wear tap shoes?”_ Her head turns in the vague direction that she can hear him.

“I like the sound!” He spins a bit, footsteps clipping awkwardly against the floor. He hums, starting to get into the swing of a three step skip. “Do you know Nat King Cole’s _Orange Colored Sky?”_

 _“No, I don’t believe so?”_ Her tail flicks, and her voice begins to sound amused. _“But I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”_

“Oh, you better believe so!” He laughs, adding in a few more clicks to accentuate a set of seven. _“I was walkin’ along, mindin’ my business, when out of an orange colored sky-!”_ He spins back toward her with a jump, stamping on each syllable. _“Flash, bam, alakazam!”_ Alastor slides forward a few feet. _“Wonderful you came by.”_

Her shoulders shake as if she wants to laugh, but no sound comes out, aside from a silent huffing through her nose that sounds close enough to a giggle. _“A jazz song. Of course, I should have known.”_

“I _cannot_ believe you’ve never heard _Orange Colored Sky!”_ He skips forward again. _“One look and I yelled timber! Watch out for fly-y-ing glass.”_ His foot starts tapping in time as the vocals pick up in pace. _“‘Cause the ceiling fell in and the bottom went out, I went into a spin and I started to shout, I’ve been hit, this is it, this is it, I’ve - been - hit!”_ He spins, and right then the cabin jolts and he’s sent scrambling for balance. “Ack-”

Jasmine seems to wobble herself for a moment, and the shaking in her shoulders only gets harder. _“Are you alright?”_

He skips a little, then finally manages to get both his feet on the ground. “Yes. I’m completely fine.” He straightens and pats down his vest. “Hmm, maybe I’ll take a seat now.”

 _“That might be the best course of action, yes.”_ Her shoulders start to cease in their shaking, and the tip of her tail starts to wag a touch.

Alastor starts making his way toward her. “If you ever feel the need to learn dance moves outside of tap, feel free to ask me about it. I have a _relatively_ flexible schedule. I’m sure I could fit you in.”

She shakes her head, as if in amusement, tail flicking at that. _“It might not be me that needs the lessons, but we’ll see.”_ She tilts her head as soon as she feels the truck come to a stop, and she moves to stand from the crate of guns she had been sitting upon. _“I do believe we’re here.”_

“Brilliant!” He puts his hands on his hips. “Where exactly is _here_ again?”

_“You’ll see in a moment.”_

There was a brief pause, before the sound of the doors being unlocked was heard, and Loralai’s figure soon appears as they swing open, the light of Hell’s sky spilling in from behind her as she does so. “Ok, you two need to step outside of the back for a moment while the guys load up the cargo.” From behind her, there were at least 5 other demons, all of them holding what looks to be hand trucks, filled to the brim with at least 8 black containers stacked on top of each other, all of them made with a thick, sturdy wooden casing, with no kind of logo or insignia whatsoever.

“Oh, now, if that isn’t ominous, I don’t know what is.” Alastor smirks widely and steps down as Jasmine waves him forward, letting Loralai help her down. He fits his hands behind his back and looks over the demons and their mysterious boxes. Strange how Pentious left them unmarked, though he could see how the man may be worried about the items being traced back to him. They’re about the size of small ammo crates, based on his limited and admittedly outdated knowledge.

After a moment where Loralai moves to pull down a ramp from the truck’s under carriage, there was a small pause of silence before one of the demons pushes forward with his hand truck, his hands keeping a notably tight grip on the handles, and Alastor couldn’t help but also note that the uniforms of these demons resembled something close to full on suits, with thick rubber gloves, work boots, construction helmets, and vests, as well as thick work goggles all plastered to their foreheads. As the first demon crept forward onto the ramp, one of the others standing idly by starts to mutter under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear, one of his hands lifting up in a sign of caution. “Easy there, Mike. Easy.”

Alastor raises a brow, watching them for a moment longer before glancing aside, taking in the building they had parked inside. A few signs labeled with warnings and cautionary guides for maneuvering around a power plant plaster the walls, a few with instructions on what to do if electrical fires start or if the core collapses. He blinks at that. “Is this a _nuclear_ power plant?”

Loralai’s gaze flicks to him, as do the rest of the workers, and for a moment, no one speaks, before one of the workers shakes his head. “No, the boss deemed radiation to be a bit too costly, what with the atomic waste and the fact that you have to make a lot of deals up on the surface just to get the damn uranium down here.”

“Shit-!” The worker who was slowly pushing the hand truck up the ramp visibly snags the wheel on one of the ramp’s edges, and the crates visibly wobble. The workers all flinch, a couple of them taking a few steps back as if they were about to bolt. Even Loralai and Jasmine look tense. 

After a moment of silence, they all begin to relax, and the one pushing the cart lets out a sigh before he begins to work his way up onto the truck.

“I thought as mu-” Alastor jumps a little at everyone’s reaction, watching the man with his cargo. His eyes dart around at the collective sighs of relief. “Don’t tell me we’re delivering _loaded_ weaponry.”

“No, no, it’s not loaded. I dunno what it is, all they told me was that it’s important that it doesn’t shake is all.” The main worker speaks up again, shifting a touch. “That’s why we have to tie them down.”

“I see.” Strange. Pentious must be keeping a tight lid on the products he’s shipping. If it’s some of his more advanced weaponry... well, he did see quite a bit of glass work in the base. He wouldn’t be surprised if some is used in the making of his weapons as well. If only for aesthetic looks. “Delicate items. Interesting.” His earlier consideration for explosives come back to mind.

“Yeah. Really delicate. Try to not to touch anything, you hear me?” The worker shoots him with a bit of a glare. “I don’t want to get fired all because some nitwit decides to go and take a peek.”

Alastor straightens, bringing a hand to his chest. “I’d sooner ask Sir Pentious himself.”

“..Hm. Good.” The worker glances up toward the truck as Mike makes his way back down the ramp, the crates now gone entirely from the hand truck. Once he’s clear from the ramp, he begins to push his own hand truck towards the ramp, his hands keeping a firm grip on the handles.

Alastor glances over at Loralai and Jasmine. “So. How long does this usually take?”

Loralai shrugs softly, moving to fold her arms. “About a couple minutes.”

“Hm. I guess there are quite a few people working on it.”

“I guess so. A lot of this kind of stuff is kept under tight wraps. Pentious isn’t really the type to share information with his workers, not if it isn’t strictly necessary to know. Sure, you can package stuff and ship it and guard it, but if he deems that you don’t need to know what you’re making or shipping or guarding, then you won’t.” Loralai shrugs again. “Something I’ve noticed after the first two years.”

“And how long have you been doing this?” He raises a brow at her. He isn’t entirely sure if he’ll be able to hold himself back from at least trying to take a peek at the goodies they transport.

“Hmm...About 4 years. There’d been a few close calls from idiots that try to raid the truck, but there’s never been any kind of...incident, from the goods themselves.” Her tail flicks a touch at that. “If you want to ask the Boss, go ahead. Doesn’t mean you’ll get an answer.”

“I got the feeling, yeah.” He watches the demons load the packages into the truck, then shrugs and looks away to better occupy himself. There’s nothing all too interesting outside of the warning posters. There isn’t much to look at in general. And very little to hide behind if he wanted to sneak around and take a better look at the place. Not that he would, but, well... he wants to.

 _“I would advise not dancing again when we head back in with the cargo.”_ Jasmine’s head tilts a touch, and though she can’t smile, her tone indicates that she’s smirking.

Alastor smirks in return. “We’ll see how full it gets and then see if I can manage it.”

•••

For other more lucrative individuals, the day is an easy one. There are few business calls, few explosions in the city, and no threats of assassination (that are known). The light show is something to gawk at for a short period of time, and then something to worry about malfunctioning electronics or the occasional headache, but otherwise it means nothing. Yet. Lucifer is certain he’s going to receive some kind of call or notice from an international line, possible from one of the many sleeper agents he had placed across the Underworld millennia ago. But he hasn’t gotten any mail yet and isn’t eager to retrieve it himself, so he instead sits inside with a cup of coffee spiked with a decent amount of Kahlua. He reads the daily newspaper, headline screaming about some proposed technological upgrade to the city’s electrical grid.

He sips slowly at his coffee, eyes scanning over the text, narrowing a touch at the article in question, pausing to place his mug down on the table next to his armchair. “Hmm. 80% increase to the power grid. Interesting. Someone must’ve either discovered a new power source or they invented something able to withstand Hell’s electrical magic.”

He frowns for a moment, considering the likely players. Pentious, of course, but he couldn’t see any reason for him to increase the grid by so much. Vox is actively trying to expand his enterprise, though he’s doubtful of the extent or success of his attempts. He shrugs after a moment and sets the paper down, making a mental note to check into it sometime soon. He looks over the table he’s seated at. No Charlie and no Lilith. He hasn’t seen Razzle or Dazzle recently either. It’s well past lunch as well. Had Charlie gone into the city again? Nerves start eating at him. Anything could happen to her out in the city. Sure, she has a map now, but that doesn’t mean much when the territories shift so frequently. Maybe he could stop by her room? Snacks never hurt anyone. And Lilith isn’t around telling him sweets aren’t the only source of nutrition in the world.

That last thought gets him to grin, chuckling to himself, and with with that, he moves to fold up the paper, pushing himself up to his feet and making his way toward Charlie’s room. With a simple snap of his fingers, he has a large plate of cookies in his hand, as if they were completely fresh out of the oven, and the smell is enough to make him want to simply eat them all. But he manages to hold back his craving for sweets, just to make sure Charlie would be able to take her pick, and when he arrives at her door, he lifts his hand to knock. “Charlie? You there, sweetheart?”

There was no answer.

He waits for a moment, in case she’s hidden on her balcony again, and then knocks again, a little louder. He hopes it doesn’t sound too loud. “Charlie? I have cookies! May I come in? I just might eat them all if you don’t act fast.” He smirks, patting himself on the back at the jest, and waits again. More time passes and his grin slowly fades. “Sweetie?” He steps a little closer to the door, trying to listen for any sounds that may give away someone trying to avoid him.

He could hear...something. He could hear her voice, as recognizable as her own face, but it sounded hushed, as if she was trying her damndest to be quiet. He could just barely hear her words through the door. 

“You need to calm down, ok? I know, I know, it sounds bad-“

There was a pause, a sharp one, before she start attempting to talk again. “Angel-, Angel, I need you to breathe-No, no, you listen to me, ok? Breathe. Try to keep breathing. Don’t think about it. Just breathe.”

Lucifer blinks, shifting a little, and then glances at the plate of cookies as it hinders his ability to get closer to the door. Angel is the name of the demon that had helped his daughter at the casino, isn’t it? He tosses the plate to the side, letting it hover and spin about in the air as he presses the side of his face against the door, sending a minuet amount of magic into the room to hear better. Whatever is going on, he needs to know everything. Only then would he be able to help Charlie and her friend.

“Charlie, this isn’t some kind of fucking panic attack situation, this is serious!”

“Having a panic attack _is_ serious and you’re having one right now!”

“I-I am _not!”_ Angel’s breathing seems to wheeze a touch at that. “What I _am,_ however, is fucking _dead!”_

“Angel, you’re not going to die! Do you hear me? You’re not dead. You’re gonna be fine!”

“Do I have to remind you who’s _after me_ right now?” 

“We don’t know if he-“

“The fucker _killed_ Rex! Burned his house to the ground! What the fuck else could that even mean?!”

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait. _Wait._ Charlie had gone out on her own twice and is already wrapped up in some kind of murder escapade? He’d be proud if she was the one doing the killing, but it doesn’t sound that way. In fact, it sounds quite the opposite. Or maybe tangentially opposite? If Angel is the target, it’s possible the murderer has no idea of Charlie’s involvement with him. Although, knowing Charlie, she’d put her own neck on the line to keep her new friend safe. But why hadn’t she told him about this?

“Uhh, ok, yeah, that..that does sound bad..”

“Yeah, it sure fucking is! And I know Valentino is gonna do jackshit to stop it. He isn’t gonna do a damn thing. I’m not of worth to him. I can’t do anything to convince him I’m worth being kept alive. He’s just gonna throw me to the sharks and let Alastor fucking tear me into pieces just for a laugh!” 

“No, he won’t! You wanna know why?”

“Don’t say you’re gonna order him to keep me safe, it’s not going to work.“

“That’s not what I was gonna say! I was gonna say that you should come in the Palace! There’s no way he’d find you there!”

Valen- Oh, well, that’s a pretty easy solution. Wait, wait. The name of the murderer is Alastor. Good to know. And Valentino is involved in this. He cringes. Mob politics already. He’d have to get involved with a potential dispute between gangs, hopefully without seeming too biased toward one side. Not impossible to do, but.... He exhales, pulling back from the door, and knocks again. “Charlie? Honey, I know you’re in there.”

“Shit...Hold on, my dad’s at the door. Just..try to breathe, alright? I know it sounds stupid but breathe. Don’t pass out on me.”

There was the clattering of what must have been the phone being put down, and then after a short bit of silence, the door opens, displaying Charlie, wearing what looks to be a green shirt and slacks, wearing her impeccable smile, as always, though it has a soft nervous tick to it that Lucifer is able to see. “H-Hey, Dad. Sorry about that, I was just, uh..talking to someone on the phone.”

He takes a breath, noticing the nervous look on her face. “Is everything alright? I’ve been knocking for a while and you weren’t responding.”

“Huh?” She blinks at that, and her grin only gets wider. “Oh, no, no, it’s fine. I was just uh..up on the balcony so I didn’t hear that you were up there.”

“Ah. Okay.” His brows knit together and he shifts. “I thought I heard you talking with someone. You didn’t sneak anyone in while I wasn’t looking, did you?” He lets some of the worry fade from his face, smirking a little.

That instantly gets her cheeks to flare up in a bright red glow. “I-I-What?! No! No, no, I-You-I would never! I...” She trails off, seeing the growing smirk, and her eyes narrow in an indignant glare. “Shut up!”

Lucifer snickers as she stammers to tell him off, and then openly laughs for a few seconds as she tells him to shut up. “Mind if I come in for a moment? I wasn’t kidding about the cookies.” He pulls the tray out from behind him and shows them off.

Some of the glare falls away the moment she sees the cookies, and she lets out a sigh before stepping to the side. “Yeah, sure. What kind are they?”

“Chocolate chip, mostly. A few macademia nut.” He walks in, glancing around quickly and finding the room in relative order. He notices the phone, still open, but doesn’t draw any attention to it. “So what were you doing, way up in the balcony where you couldn’t hear my knocking?”

“I, uh..I was trying to find something. Angel called me earlier and he was in a bit of a buzz about something. Apparently there was a small fire that broke out in the East side of the Pentagram? I was trying to see if I could see it.”

"Oh, well, fires are a common occurrence in Hell." Lucifer shrugs lightly. "Nothing to get excited over, unless it was something particularly special about it."

“Uh..I don’t really know myself. He was just calling me to tell me. Apparently a lot of people saw the smoke?” She picks up a cookie from the plate. “I did also see a big laser shoot through the sky. What was that about?”

"International affairs with Sir Pentious." He shrugs, hedging his bets, given the direction and trajectory. "He's probably just trying to show off at this point. But this fire, um..." He picks up a cookie, still melty and gooey, and takes a bite, thinking for a moment. "Hmm. There was a hellfire in the East. Is that the one?"

“Yeah!” She nods, a bit too quickly, then seems to realize her mistake and slowly nods again, slower this time, also taking a bite of a cookie. “Not many demons can use hellfire. I mean, not many demons can use it _easily,_ and some people are saying that this house was covered head to toe in it.”

"Hm." She isn't _wrong_ but Lucifer would say it's more common than people think. "I suppose so. It's a sign of a higher classed pyromancer for sure. Are you worried about it?"

“Well..Not _me,_ but Angel is kind of..freaking out a bit.” She looks aside, pretending to give an idle shrug.

He glances at the phone still resting on the table off to the side. "Is he still on the line?"

She winces, but after a moment, slowly nods. “..Yeah. I was trying to calm him down when you came in.”

"I can talk to him if you want." He shrugs, as if it's no big deal. Mostly because it isn't. "This is the same Angel who helped you out at the casino, right?"

“Yeah, he is...” She sighs softly, and she slowly moves to rub her arm with a hand, as if unsure. “..It isn’t just the fire that’s got him scared. It’s...something else. Some _one_ else.”

"The person who set the fire?" He picks up another cookie, inspecting it for a moment, and then scarfs it down.

“Yeah. Apparently this guy has a vendetta against Valentino’s gang, and now Angel’s worried that this guy is going to go after him because he ran into him once.”

"And Angel's worried Valentino won't offer protection because..." He thinks for a moment. "Hellfire being indicative of higher magic users, which are difficult and costly to defend against." He nods and sets the cookie tray down on the table, then gestures to the phone. "Can I?"

"Of course." Lucifer grins softly, picking up the phone and bringing it to his ear. "Hello, this is Lucifer Magne speaking. Is there an Angel still on the line?"

There was a long, long pause, before there was the sound of some shifting on the other end, like the phone was being picked up. A voice was heard, quiet, shocked, and thin. 

“..Y..Yeah..”

Lucifer's brows tighten. "I understand you're in a rather difficult situation, Angel. You're worried about being targeted as a result of mob feuds?"

“..Y-Yeah, I am. And, uh..It’s Angel _Dust,_ Sir.”

"Of course, Angel Dust." He grins lightly. At least he's put together enough to correct him on his name. "I want to tell you how grateful I am that you helped my daughter when she was at the _Moonlight Blitz._ I don't believe words are enough to express such a thing, so I was wondering if you would be comfortable with a temporary visit here at the palace. It would be an absolute pleasure to return the favor, if you're willing."

“...A-Are you serious, Sir?” He sounds quite surprised about the whole thing, which is to be expected.

"Of course! Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't stepped in?" Lucifer gives Charlie a grin. "Besides, there's plenty of space in the palace, plenty of food that needs to be eaten. It's not as if you'd be imposing yourself."

Charlie looks quite surprised, staring at him as if he had went and gone and grown a second head.

Angel Dust’s voice sounds equally as incredulous. “I..I don’t really know what to say here, um...Wow, uh...Ok, I think that could be...doable. Yeah. Very much doable.”

"I can send a valet to pick you up whenever you feel is a good time. All I would need is an address and time. You can bring anything you want or need, and yes, that includes pets. I love pets. Please tell me you have one. It's been ages since I've even seen a pet." Lucifer's head tilts back as he recalls the puppy dog eyes Cerberus had given him last.

“Um...” His voice starts to sound a bit amused, on top of the confusion. “I..I got a pet pig?”

"A pet pig?" His grin spreads across his face. "No way! That's so precious. What's the name?"

“Oh, um..Uh..” He starts to sound a touch embarrassed now. “I..I named him, uh...” There was a slight pause, and his voice is a bit more quiet. “..Fat Nuggets.”

"Fat Nugg-" Lucifer can't finish the name without nearly breaking into giggles, but he manages to hold back enough to clear his throat. "Fat Nuggets is a _lovely_ name." He presses his lips together, skillfully holding back another round of laughter.

There was a soft, barely held back chuckle, albeit a nervous one. “Uh, thanks, Sir. So, uh...If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get that ride over to the Palace around tomorrow, if that’s ok. Ten AM, if you can do that.”

"Yeah, certainly! Ten in the morning is perfectly fine. Where should I send the valet?" He fishes inside his jacket and pulls out a notepad, flipping it open and starting to write the information down.

“Uhh...564 on Junebug Street. Down in the Southeast.”

"Oh, I actually know the area." He writes the address down. "It's usually pretty quiet down there. Is the ice cream parlor still on Fathom Avenue?"

“Uh, yeah, it is. Still standing as far as I can tell. Haven’t heard word of it being shot up or anything.”

"That's good to hear! I'll have to stop by there some time to see how things have changed." He adds a small note on the ice cream parlor.

“Heh, y-yeah, of course..” There was a slight pause. “Ehem, uh...Thank you, Sir. For..For doing this, I mean.”

"Please, call me Lucifer. And it's the least I can do, honestly." He smiles softly. "Will you be alright for the rest of the day?"

“I..I think so, yeah. I got a couple people watching my back. Friends of mine, I mean. I don’t want to put them on the line if shit goes sideways, so...I appreciate it.”

"Yeah, of course. Would you like to talk with Charlie again? She's still here." He looks over at her.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

He holds the receiver out to her. "He wants to talk with you."

Charlie moves to take it, holding it up to her ear, though she does take a few steps away from Lucifer, her shoulders hunching a touch. “Are you _sure_ you’re going to be alright?”

"Yeah, I... I think I'll be good." Angel sounds tired, but he's miles away from the shaky, terrified voice that had called in a panic. "I'll be with people the rest of the day, so... you know, it's not gonna be easy for anything to happen."

“Ok, good. That’s good. Ok, just...Don’t worry about it for now, alright? We can talk about what to do when you’re here.”

"Yeah, that, uh, that sounds like a plan." There's a deep breath on the other side. "Fuck, this is just so... Guh."

“I know, I know. I honestly wasn’t expecting things to get this bad so fast.”

"Yeah, I thought he'd have taken his time or somethin'. I just - I dunno what else he knows if he found Rex's house, you know? Sorry for panicking on you and all."

“No, no, it’s a completely normal thing to panic over. I would too if I was in your place, you know?” She cracks a small grin at that. “We’ll figure something out.”

"Yeah. Yeah, hopefully. Guess I'm gonna get a peek at the palace, huh?" There's some laughter in his voice, even if it is somewhat strained.

“Heh.” She tries to widen her grin, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah, buddy, you sure are. Lucky you, right?”

"Geez, I'm gonna be the talk of the town, aren't I?" He finally lets out a little bit of a chuckle. "Thank you, Charlie. And tell your dad I said thanks too. This means... I don't know how to tell you how much this means to me."

“Of course. It’s honestly the least I could do.” Her grin shifts into a softer, more genuine smile. “Even if it’s Hell, that doesn’t mean we can’t help each other, you know?”

"Yeah, I got you there." Angel sighs lightly. "I should be goin'. My break's almost over and I've been hoggin' the phone."

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. See you later.”

"See you later, Charlie." The line clicks to an end.

Lucifer watches her, cookies in both his hands. "I hope he feels better. He really did sound shaken up."

“Yeah, me too...” She lets out a sigh as she moves to place the phone back in it’s handle. She glances up toward him, looking unsure. “..You aren’t… _mad,_ are you? About me not telling you that I kinda was getting involved in some weird murder scheme?”

"What? Mad?" He blinks, unsure where the idea had come from. "Why would I be mad? I mean, I'm a little concerned, sure, but not _mad."_

“I dunno, I just...” She sighs a bit and moves to sit down on the edge of her bed. “You’re always so protective and everything, and I figured me not telling you about anything I’m doing would wind up pissing you off because of it. That’s the whole reason why I didn’t want to tell you anything. I wanted to handle it on my own for a change.”

Lucifer follows her, finishing his cookies as he sits down beside her, slowly, taking that in. "I know I can be... incredibly protective..." He smiles lightly at her, taking one of her hands. "But I promise I'll never be angry at you for something like this. Wanting to fix things and figure them out without parental supervision is a necessary step in life, no matter how much I may hate it." He chuckles a little.

She looks up at him at that, blinking a touch, though her lips soon lift up in a grin. “..You promise?”

"I promise a million times - with a million cookies on top!" He grins widely at her, putting a hand on top of hers and squeezing gently. His grin lessens slightly after a moment. "Is there anything else I should know about this murderer you and Angel are so worried about?"

“Well...” She moves to fish something out of her coat pocket, and after a moment, she slowly pulls it out. “He apparently used to have this. Angel snatched it up when he was going around the man’s house, looking for clues and such.” She unfurls her hand, showing off a ruby red monocle.

"Huh. Could have sworn these things were long out of style." Lucifer brings it closer to himself, looking it over. There's magic clinging to it, something that feels familiar, but.... He frowns. He's met so many people, it's difficult to keep their magic straight. "Any idea on a name?"

“Uhh...His demonic name is Alastor. Human name is “Adam Walker.” She shifts a touch, crossing her arms for a moment. “Apparently this guy _also_ went and killed someone in Sir Pentious’s territory, and he wanted to help me try to track him down.”

"Alastor." He doesn't say the human name aloud, mostly because hearing it is enough to send a shock through his system that's difficult to suppress. _Alastor._ Now the name rings a bell. He turns the monocle over in his fingers. Definitely his style. He hums. "Well, if he's foolish enough to attack Sir Pentious's goons out of everyone in Hell, _and_ start a feud with Valentino... I doubt he'll last long."

“...There’s a bit more to it.” She lets out a sigh. “Apparently Angel Dust met him because he ended up saving a girl from a group of Vox’s gang, and then the girl ended up getting shot. As far as Angel can tell, she’s still probably with him. Her human name is Alice, but we don’t know if she has a demon name yet. And..” She hesitates for a moment. “The reason we want to find her is because this guy is dangerous. Like… _really_ dangerous..”

Lucifer frowns. The two of them had done a lot of research already. And now Vox was in on this too. "How dangerous?"

“He, uh...” She looks aside, a hand squeezing down on her arm. “..He _eats_ people. Eats _demons.”_

That ticks all the boxes. His eyes widen, but for reasons different than Charlie imagines. "Oh. A cannibal that takes the word literally."

“Y..Yeah...” She shifts a touch. “Now do you see why I didn’t want to tell you anything at first?”

"Ah. No, not quite." In all honesty, he would have expected Charlie to come to him immediately if something had frightened her or other citizens of Hell so badly.

She gives him a glance at that, brows furrowing, not so much a glare but a look of idle frustration, as if it was an obvious thing to see. “I didn’t want you flipping the fuck out and locking me back up in the Palace because of some crazed cannibal.”

His eyes widen, stiffening at the admission. Whatever equivalent to a heart he has clenches painfully. "I... I'm sorry you felt that way." He looks down at his lap, sure he should say more. The only things that came to mind were excuses.

She must’ve seen the look on his face because she sighs, leaning in to press her shoulder to his. “...I just didn’t want to wind up stuck in home again. I didn’t know how you were going to react if I told you right off the bat.”

"Yeah, I can... Imagine." He sighs, leaning into her as well. "I really fucked up. I shouldn't have..." He waves a hand, both to ward off pesky emotions and to search for the right words. "...kept you here for so long. It was selfish and definitely overprotective of me. And generally wrong."

“...Yeah. It..It kind of was.” She goes quiet for a moment. “..Promise me you won’t do it again?”

He nods quickly. "Yes. Yes, I will never so much as lock you in your room ever again. I promise." He takes one of her hands, holding it between his own. "I _promise_ I won't do it again. And I promise I will be better and I'll do my best to learn better and, and-" He feels his eyes starting to burn, his throat closing, and he can't look at her. "I'm sorry. I'm so, _so_ sorry.”

She hears the sound of his voice choking up, of his stuttering, and she feels a sharp pang of regret skewer itself right through her chest, and she moves to wrap her arms around him in a hug, squeezing him tight, not saying a word. She sniffles a touch, feeling her own eyes start to burn, but she holds it back, her arm rubbing up and down his back in an attempt to comfort him. “I..I’m sorry too..”

"W-what for?" He sniffles, shuddering, and wraps his own arms around her. "You're right. I shouldn't - shouldn't have done that."

“I-I dunno.” She sniffles again, and a bit of a strained laugh comes to her voice. “I just feel like apologizing cuz you’re crying? I hate seeing you cry, you know that.” She squeezes him a bit harder, just to make sure he wouldn’t be able to run away to prevent her from seeing him cry.

Lucifer manages a small laugh, interrupted by more sniffles. "I don't b-blame you. I hate seeing my-myself cry too." His breathing stutters in and even more tears escape him. "I'm such an ugly crier. Blegh."

“Heheh. W-Who would’ve thought the Devil to be such a big crybaby, huh?” She cracks a smile, even as she sniffs, squeezing him even harder.

He smirks, fighting off more tears and laughing some more. "Just imagine if H-Hell found out. That'd be hilarious."

“Heheh..No one would have the guts to say anything to your _face,_ that much I know..”

"Pff, you've got a point there." He pulls back and rubs his face. "Guh. Now I want to eat all the ice cream in the universe."

“Heh..Chocolate or birthday cake?” She moves to rub at one of her eyes with a fist, one of her cheeks a bit wet with tears.

"Both, but, well, birthday cake." He grins weakly.

“Hehe..Yeah, I think both sounds good.” She sniffles, grinning right back. The snake that’s wrapped around Lucifer’s hat slithers forward to press it’s snout against her cheek, and she giggles as she lifts a finger to rub over it’s head. “Heh..Love you too, Crocosmia.”

Lucifer grins, watching the two for a moment. "How about we move this into the kitchen?"

“Heh, yeah, of course.” She moves to stand up, wiping her cheeks and rubbing her eyes, giving one last sniff. “But you have to tell Mom what happened if she catches us eating all the ice cream again.”

"Don't worry, I'll just cry on her shoulder and she'll understand." He smirks, wiping his eyes again before standing. "Can I get another hug?"

“Heheh..” A giggle comes to her lips and she moves to wrap him up in her arms again, squeezing, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Y-You know what’s funny?”

Lucifer relaxes a touch more at the hug, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on her shoulder. "What?"

“I just realized that I’m taller than you.” She suddenly moves to snatch his hat and place it atop her own head, pulling back with a grin.

"Ah - hey!" He straightens out of the hug, pouting, and takes note of the solid few inches she has over him. He tries snatching the hat back, but Charlie merely hops back out of reach. "Well - I - no, you're not!"

“Oh, I’m not? I certainly beg to differ!” She flashes a cheeky grin as she moves to dangle the hat over his head. “Come on, try to grab it!”

He jumps to swipe at it, missing it, obviously, and then tries again. Crocosmia smirks and flicks out its tongue at him. Lucifer tries again, misses again, and then crosses his arms.

“Ooh, almost, almost!” She looks like she’s trying to not laugh, giving his hat a little wiggle in the air. “Come on, you want your ‘Royal Crown’ back, don’t you?”

He narrows his eyes on her, then suddenly jumps, two wings flaring out for some extra lift, and snatches his hat out of her grip. "Ha!" He hovers there, smug, clutching his hat and Crocosmia to his chest. "I got it."

 _“Wah!”_ She visibly jolts back at the sudden presence of his wings, swearing she almost felt the feathers smack her right in the face, and she moves to stumble, her own wings flaring out and flapping frantically before she’s finally able to stabilize herself, a whole clump of smog-grey feathers falling to the floor expectantly.

"Oh, careful! Stretch first." Lucifer floats down a bit, his other wings slowly unfurling with the motion.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know.” She winces a touch, her own wings starting to stretch out more slowly, their thin membranes slowly unfurling like a pair of fingers. “Guh..It’s just been a while, is all..”

"We could probably both do with some preening, now that I think about it." Lucifer tucks his hat back into place, looking her wings over. "How do they feel?" 

“Hmmm...A bit stiff? I’ve been _trying_ to preen them but I’m not sure how well you can do that when _this_ keeps happening.” She gives her wings a shake, and an even bigger clump of grey feathers fall.

"Hmm..." He looks her feathers over. "Yeah, we should probably check that out a bit more thoroughly. Before or after ice cream?"

“Uhh, _after,_ obviously.” She raises a brow, smiling all the while. “I’m not a dummy. I’m not gonna say no to an ice cream binge.”

 _"Perfect!"_ He claps his hands together. "Let's get started, shall we?"

•••

Sir Pentious had always been a man of secrets. He had been in life, and he continues to be in death. Which is why he has a lesser known secret, a misnomer for the nosey types to hunt out and lay their eyes upon. He has several, of course, including the weaponization of certain marble statues throughout the city, but this one is by far the most obvious.

His mansion in the northwest.

It was neither plain nor gaudy, perfectly and exceptionally well kept, and marked by his signature colors in understated and nuanced ways. A black fence surrounds the perimeter of a four story building, six if you count the basement and sub-basement, red curtains in the windows and a fountain with yellow sandstone in front. Black fish-scale singles, purple-black bricks, and copper coloring for the gables, cornices, and other accents. The inside drips with every bit of his personality that he can manage, meaning no spare in expense for properly stained and varnished woods, a grand piano he himself had made, a bathhouse on the first floor, another in the basement, spiral staircases and elevators, sloping paths for when he wants to slither upstairs on his own, and even a massive tree in the middle of the complex for his thinking habits. Dozens of television screens, his own power generator, a three door garage, storage rooms, and don’t forget the rugs and pictures scattered about the place. For now, all he has eyes for is his freshly made cup of tea, a few blueprints he’s close to finishing, and a logbook of updates he’s been meaning to add to.

He moves to sip at said cup of tea, not minding the scalding sensation upon his tongue, before letting his eyes scan over the recently sketched blueprint for the latest device he was working on. It would be an exclusive trinket, and one that had to work perfectly in order for it to reach the standards that he wanted it to meet, meant to be small, compact, worn around the wrist, much like that of a bracelet, and he had to figure out a way to regulate the power needed to generate the required effects, _without_ causing damage to the person who’d be wearing it. Though, given the condition of his soul, and his apparent sensitivity to magic, that might be a touch more difficult than he was expecting. He can’t help but let his tongue flicker out between his teeth, and he moves to make an idle sketch in another, less valuable notebook next to him, making a rough scribble of a small glass tube with a diamond-like shape within it, and pauses to tap his pen against his lip. A sphere, even a small one, would be too clunky, despite the larger power supply, but a crystal would be much more meager, and he didn’t like the thought of it running out of power the moment Alastor was in the middle of a perilous warzone…

If he _wants_ to redo the entire design, he could make it flat, merely a circle, but that would mean finding a different way to connect it. Not to mention increase the surface area and heighten the chances of it breaking. And he’d have to make a different vessel. Better to simply work within this design for now and make a new one if needed. A smaller power supply would make a good test out of how much Alastor can withstand too. He could always make adjustments-

A series of knocks echoes from the door to his office.

His head snaps upwards towards the door, and he feels his hood bristle immediately, his lips curling back in an irritated snarl, eyes narrowing, knowing for a fact what was on the other side of it. His tail lashes, and he can already feel his blood pressure starting to spike, his voice ringing out as a loud growl of annoyance. _“What is it now?”_

“A letter arrived for you at the door, Sir!” An all too cheery voice calls out to him, exacerbating the pressure in his skull. “It’s addressed to you and everything.”

He feels his left eye twitch, but he feels some of the rage fade at the sound of a letter, and he blinks, muttering to himself more than anything. “..A letter?” He’s silent for a moment, before he sighs. “Come in and give it to me.”

The door opens halfway and a little egg demon walks in, dressed perfectly in a suit and tie. He walks toward him, clutching a small envelope, and rounds the desk to hand it to him. “Here you go, boss!”

Pentious can’t help but feel a small hiss creep up in his throat the moment the little creature actually walks _around_ the desk to hold up the letter to his face, but he manages to stifle it long enough to resist the urge to simply pick it up and chuck it at all the wall and leave it to splatter. Instead, he merely moves to snatch the envelope from it’s hand, and he starts to look it over, holding it up to the light to see if anything within the paper shown through. “Wassss there anything at the door when you found it?”

"Nope! Nothing at all, just the letter." The minion takes a small step back, grinning widely. "No one in sight either. It was the _strangest_ thing."

“..Hmm..” He narrows his eyes toward the letter, tongue flickering out to detect any hint of poison. There was none. “..Dissssmissed.”

"Yes, Sir!" The egg stares at him for a moment, then moves to the door. "Door open or closed, Sir?"

“Closssed. Don’t let anyone else bother me unless it’s an emergency. That’s an order.” He gives the creature a quick, stern glare.

"Yes, Sir!" He waddles outside and starts closing the door. "Have a good evening, Sir!"

He rolls his eyes as the door finally shuts, his tongue flickering out in distaste, before his eyes move to finally scan over the envelope, gingerly moving to slit it open with a claw. After pausing, not detecting any scent of poisons or a spark of flame, he moves to tear open the envelope freely, and he slowly pulls out the letter contained within. “Hmm..” His eyes narrow.

The script is flowing, crisp, just barely dried. _"Sir Pentious, I hope this letter finds you in good health, and perhaps in a position to consider an offer more lucrative than others presented to you. I understand you have no use for money, so be assured that I offer more. I offer an alliance. A combination of our powers."_

Pentious stares for a moment at the fresh ink that greeted him upon the parchment, and he can’t help but raise a brow, slowly. What kind of demon had the gall to step forward and give him an offer of that kind of magnitude?

_"I'm sure this is an unusual request, so I am attaching a script on the reverse for immediate contact. All you need do is write on the reverse if you are curious, and then leave the paper in a confined area. I implore you to consider the option, at the very least to discuss more in depth._

_"With the highest regards, Helsa von Eldritch"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some art showcasing Nora, Ventriloquist, Loralai, and Jasmine! https://corruptapostasy-art-blog.tumblr.com/post/617966056671150080/four-prominent-hazbin-hotel-ocs-from-our-fic


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again and apologies for the wait! Our schedules were a bit on and off for this one. Hope everyone is staying safe out there <3
> 
> CW: body horror, blood, vomiting (mostly toward the second half of the chapter)
> 
> Don’t forget to kudos and leave a comment if you like what you see!

The air of the limo is more stifling than it’s been in a long time, but it’s a blessing in comparison to the raw air of Hell. There’s panic in the streets. Some people are reveling in it, taking the time to trash vending machines, pull down traffic lights, even smash windows on parked cars. Others loot stores, looking for anything that could help protect them from doomsday. No doubt there’s dozens of sinners trying to run for their Purge hideouts. The shouts and chaos make it through even Valentino’s durable, soundproof windows.

Valentino doesn’t look any happier than he had been earlier. He’s all but shouting into a phone, pissed with the ruckus and the responses he’s getting on the other side. Every now and then his eyes dart to Vox, sitting across from him, but before any softness can set into his expression, he hears something else that riles him, sets his antenna trembling.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me! Something that big goes off and you’re telling me there’s no records anywhere? Nothing? No draw from the power grid, no mass shipments of - of iron or steel? _Nothing_?”

He’s trying to piece together a puzzle while looking through the eyes of others, without realizing that some of them may be blindfolded themselves.

Vox’s antenna tremble and crackle occasionally, providing little to no relief when it came to the building headache (screenache?) that was tingling behind his frame. The pain and overall shock from whatever had lit up the skies had faded, for the most part, but now he could feel the buzzing of electricity, of news broadcasts, flying through the air, bits and pieces of faces, of screens, of voices, flowing through his mind as if it was a film reel running through a projector. He was used to it, for the most part, always being able to pick up on a few things here or there when things were more or less normal, always able to shove it out, but the closer they got to their destination, the more surrounded they became by the bustle of the city, it was harder to fully bat aside. He closes his eyes, letting the sounds of the voices drift through his antenna, drift through his mind, just in hopes of catching a scrap of what might be going on. 

_“...Unidentifiable light shooting through the air at incredible speeds..”_

_“...No recorded explosion anywhere near the City’s borders..”_

_“...Unknown destination...”_

The news seems to know just as much as he does. A light, some theorizing it to be a laser, coursing through the air, heading toward the East, with no explosion within the Pentagram, but countless reports of heightened readings of magic. There’s a small clip of someone talking nuclear weapons. Some people are talking about the end of the world.

“Okay, okay, just-” Valentino grumbles, rubbing his face and pinching between his eyes. “I want information. I want to know where this came from, who fired that weapon, and why. I want readings from across the City. I want _answers_ , hear me?” There’s a short silence, and Val looks up at Vox again, seeing his eyes closed. He frowns, worried, and sets the phone down on the receiver. “You still with me, Vox?”

Vox’s eyes open, and the sounds of the voices of the news are immediately pushed back into the background, to the point where they were barely a whisper. He nods softly, sighing. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ok. Broadcasts are going off the fritz is all. Combing through them to see if anyone has any idea what the fuck that all was. So far, nothing.”

“..Heard someone comment that it could be nuclear. Or radiation. Something to that effect. I don’t think radiation has _magic_ to it, but who knows how that works down here.”

“Nuclear?” He crosses his arms, frowning harder. “If it is, Lucifer’s gonna be in the streets cracking skulls. Ever since World War Two, he’s made a point of not allowing anything nuclear in the hands of demons. No weapons of mass destruction.” Some of his fingers trill against his sleeves. “If enough people get worried about it, he’ll have to say something. Which means he’s probably already looking into this. Tch.” He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. This week is going to be a handful.”

“Hmmm. Why is Lucifer afraid of nuclear weapons? I mean...” He pauses to shrug. “Like, I get _why_ , I fucking fought in the war, but we’re talking about demons like you and me walking around able to snap our fingers and reduce a whole chunk of the City to ashes.”

“Which is fair game down here and doesn’t affect regeneration.” Valentino gives him a hard look. “If someone drops a bomb, even a small one, that radiation _stays_. It stops regeneration, irradiates bodies, poisons water, poisons food. And it sticks around for ages. It may as well be a second death, all without an angel blade. Besides the general horror of it, it ruins the fucked up game we all play.” He reaches into a compartment for a cigar, slicing the end and lighting it. “The whole point of Hell is for us to tear each other to pieces until an Angel does. Can’t do that when we’re already corpses.”

Vox watches as the cigar smoke slides into view, flaring up in twirling motions as Val lets out a sigh, and his eyes flick up towards the man’s eyes. There was almost an exhaustion in them, faint, but there, and it was enough to make Vox’s insides flicker and flutter, enough to have him frown to himself. He looks away for a moment, out toward the windows, before he looks back toward him. “..I’m sure when we get to my HQ, I can figure something out. No worries.” Another flicker, and he slowly moves to give one of Val’s closer arms a bit of a pat, and this time the fluttering in his insides only worsens, to the point where he swears he feels a few wires knot themselves in his torso.

“Heh. Right.” Val grins lightly, seeming to realize how tense he’s wound himself, but he doesn’t let himself relax. Not yet. He absently runs his knuckles against Vox’s arm in return. “There’s gotta be video of the shot. We could at least try and triangulate it.” He goes quiet for a moment. “I don’t think it’s nuclear. We’d be hearing symptoms by now, I think.”

Vox feels the tender touch of Val’s knuckles brushing his sleeve, and he has to let a slight flare go through his antenna to work off the extra discharge that was threatening to make him flush, feeling the wires tightening in their knots within his gut. He slowly moves to retract his arm, setting his hands in his lap, fixing his gaze outside. “..Y..Yeah. Probably. We should keep an eye on that, though. Still. Just in case.”

Val doesn’t seem to notice his stutter, or the flash of electricity, or him pulling his arm back. He’s staring into space, seemingly running calculations, reordering plans, redoing schedules. The frustration (and some of the worry) starts slipping out of him as he smokes, starting to look more focused, more put together. He still looks a bit shaken, a little more pale than usual, too quiet for his usual self. It’s small enough to be overlooked by someone who doesn’t know the man more intimately, but Vox has spent the better part of the last year holed up in his office with him. Valentino is no easy man to read, unless you know what to look for.

His mind can’t help but think back on the worry and concern that Val had in his eyes when those hands cradled his face, when his senses had been shaken and it felt as if every inch of him was being torn apart and stitched back together all at once. It was an expression that Vox could never recall seeing on Val’s face before, at all, not once, ever, and even now, just thinking about it is enough to make his antenna crackle just so. Vox moves to glance toward him, hesitating for just a moment. “..You alright?”

He startles slightly, stirred from his thoughts, and blinks at him for a moment. “Me? I’m fine, just thinking.” He leans an arm on the window beside him, resting his chin in his palm. “I don’t like not knowing things. You know that.”

Closed and shut as easy as that. A reasonable excuse that sits just barely off, but too obvious that questioning it would be tricky.

“..Yeah. Of course.” Vox shifts a touch, biting his lip, unsure of how to really voice what he was trying to think. “..You just tend to get a bit quiet sometimes.”

He hums again, taking a longer draw from his cigar. “We’re almost at the HQ. I don’t know how many people will be there, much less press, but ignore them. We’ll walk side by side, as equals. No need to be stepping on political toes in the midst of all this.”

Val glances at him for a moment, watching him, and then looks away, outside his own window as the limo pulls into the parking lot, avoiding the regular parking spots and pulling up to the front doors. There a small group of demons who set their cameras flashing, along with a small team of Vox’s right hands within the company. Conglomerate, technically. Monopoly, definitely. The car pulls to a stop and Val exhales, smiling merrily.

That gets Vox to blink, not quite expecting what almost sounded like him dodging the statement, but after a moment, he nods. “Yeah. Of course.” He looks out toward the window.

“Don’t be afraid to move ahead of me if you have to. I’ll follow you wherever we have to go.” The door pops open and Valentino slinks his way out, smirking for the cameras once before stepping aside for Vox to make his entrance.

Vox takes a moment to pause at those last words, staring at Val’s back as the man moves to clamber out of the limo, only to have the flashing of the cameras snap him out of it, and he takes a breath, steeling himself, trying to ignore the knots building up in his torso, before he also moves to step out of the car as well, being careful to not bump his head or scrape his antenna against the top of the door as he exits out of it. The camera flashes is enough to make him want to snap his fingers and pop all of the lightbulbs, maybe set the mechanisms in the cameras on fire, feeling a flare of weak anger bubble up in his gut, but he keeps a grin on his face, as instructed, moving to stand by Val’s side as the two start to walk toward the building of the HQ.

Vox’s underlings hug close beside him, some stammering out reports or news headlines he had already heard, others detailing how many cameras were focused on the strike, how many shows were talking about it, even a few floors that had vaguely started panicking, but were now (mostly) contained. Valentino listens attentively, though no one would be able to tell with how much attention he gives his cigar. The smoke almost glistens in his wake. He’s not smiling anymore, instead falling onto that business like grimace that somehow people don’t understand means he isn’t looking for compliments. At least one of the underlings say something to him, but he only nods minutely and continues listening.

“We’re receiving too many calls to answer. Some of the shows are still going, but almost everyone is turning to a news channel to try and figure out what’s happening.” A small demon, barely half Vox’s height, scribbles and reads from a clipboard in his hands. His tie had been loosened and his lion’s tail was frayed.

“There have been more people tuning into radios as well. No one’s really turning off their TVs, but it’s something we’ve picked up in data recording.” A woman hands a set of papers to Vox before slipping to the outer edges of the crowd to let them have their word.

A pair of guards open the door to the complex as they make it inside. Valentino has to duck momentarily.

Vox can’t help but narrow his eyes ever so slightly down at the papers that were handed to him, but moves his focus back up toward the doors when they enter the lobby, watching as employees quickly move about, able to hear the sounds of phones ringing off the hook around the desk of the secretaries. His antenna crackle as the distant hum of the broadcasts that had been clustering around his mind is almost entirely drowned out by the cacophony of the other shows that were being filmed right that second. A cooking show featuring how to properly subdue and kill a massive man-eating plant. A string of commercials featuring Rosie’s Emporium. A film reel of a recent movie that had been released in theaters, and though there were a dozen more shows still on the run, there were also dozens more showrooms completely silent and empty, almost eerily so. It was enough to make him frown to himself ever so slightly.

Valentino finally looks over at one of the underlings. “Is there a map of the city in Vox’s office? I’m going to need one.”

“Erm, yes, there should be one.” A rather meek looking speaks up at that. “Are you two heading to his office or to data storage, though?”

Val raises a brow and glances at Vox.

“Data storage.” Vox moves to start idly flicking through the papers as he starts to walk toward an elevator, employees quickly moving to scatter out of the way. “I’m going to try and plug in to see if I can find anything from the grid.” 

The underling blinks and nods after a moment, calling after him. “Of course, Sir. Shall I have mechanics on standby?”

“Yeah, might as well.” He moves to open up the doors, which fold open with a soft metallic creaking, and he steps through it, gesturing for Val to follow suit.

Val follows him, ducking under the door but relaxing a bit more as he notices the actual cabin is large enough to accommodate him. He exhales, smoke drifting from his lips. “Busy place.” The doors slide shut as he leans against the back of the elevator. 

“Well, a lot of the shows are filmed live right here. They gotta be busy. You know how much effort it takes to have alternating shows going on for every half hour of the day? Hell, we even fucking shoot the commercials here.” Vox sighs and moves to start flipping through the papers he had been handed. “You wouldn’t happen to have another smoke, would ya?”

“Always.” He digs through his pockets, pulling out an older cigar and a lighter. He hands it over to him when the tip starts smoldering. “So what exactly _do_ you want to look for in the grid?”

Vox moves to take the cigar from him, taking a deep puff before letting it slide out between his teeth, not answering for a moment, tapping a claw against the cigar. “..I’m gonna see if anyone’s talking about this overseas. Er, over..desert, or whatever the fuck.” He shakes his head, taking a shorter puff. “Maybe they saw whatever the fuck that was over in Europe. Or whatever it’s called down here.”

“It certainly could have been bright enough...” He frowns. “Headed in that direction too. No clue why anyone would want to aim at them, though. Not many people do international trade.”

“Who knows? That’s what I wanna find out.” Vox clenches the cigar between his teeth, talking through it as he moves to start flipping through the papers even more. “No power failure. No drop in input or output. No off air accidents..” He moves to pluck the cigar from his mouth, eyes narrowing down at the writing. “Nothing. The grid wasn’t even touched.”

“Could it have come from outside of the Pentagram?” His eyes widen at the thought, and he laughs roughly. “Imagine that, someone taking a potshot over _us_. God.”

“What, you think it’s from another city or something? Maybe...I haven’t heard anything about power failure anywhere nearby though.” He narrows his eyes a touch. “Hmm...Guess I’m checking around the other cities too while I’m in there.”

“Yeah, I suppose. How long is it gonna take?” He raises a brow. “You can pull out whenever, right? I’ve never really seen you go in before.”

Vox takes a moment to take another puff before he nods. “Yeah, I can. It took a bit of getting used to at first but now it’s kinda like...changing clothes, if that makes sense. Like going from a shirt and pants to, say, a full on winter coat complete with five scarves, a hat, mittens, and rubber boots. One’s certainly gonna feel a hell of a lot different than the other, you know?”

“Yeah, I suppose I can see that.” Valentino watches him for a moment, some of that concern creeping back into his eyes. “They mentioned having a mechanic on standby...?”

“Just in case.” He knocks a fist twice against the side of his head, creating a loud metallic thunk. “Sometimes certain things get a bit mixed up, somehow when I’m in there for longer than usual. One time my screen was stuck on the 3rd channel instead of the 4th and I was playing nothing but static for about an hour before the mechanic managed to root around in my head long enough to switch it back. Just felt like taking a really long nap.”

“Right.” He doesn’t look much more affirmed by the comments. “Just promise me you’ll be alright, yeah? No use getting yourself killed over this.”

Vox pauses at that, lips dropping into a frown at the sight. He could really see the concern in Val’s face. It almost was blank enough to look like indifference, except for the slight furrow to his brow, the way his grin had shrunk to the point where it didn’t even resemble one anymore. He was silent for a moment, simply staring at Val’s face, before he nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Good.” He exhales, then smiles again. “Hey, who knows? Maybe it is out of the city and we won’t need to worry about it much.”

The elevator dings open to a room full of odd metal boxes with flashing lights on them. There’s an occasional beep that seems to resolve itself, and a computer is situated at each end of the rows. Wires trail from the ceiling down, and fans whir to keep the air moving. At the far end of the room, the wall is curved and a handful of chords hang from the upper wall, sturdier than some of the others, and larger too. There’s no question that it’s where they’re heading, so Valentino steps out of the elevator and starts walking down the aisles.

“Heh. Maybe.” The attempt at laughter died off as fast as it surfaced, and Vox begins to move through the aisles as well, idly grimacing when he remembers that he still had a cigar in his mouth, clutching it gingerly between his teeth, grumbling past it as he begins to unbutton his coat. “Better take care of that smoke quick. I don’t exactly want it being around all this equipment.”

“Huh?” Val glances back at him, blinking as he sees him undoing his coat. “Um. As much as I enjoy a good strip show, is now the time?” He smirks to show its all in jest and pulls an ashtray out of one of his pockets, smothering his cigar.

Somehow those words are enough to make heat flare up against Vox’s screen, crackling audibly, his antenna glowing a bit brighter. “I-You-..” He has to stop himself from talking, lest he start to sputter, and he huffs, trying to ignore the squirming warmth of embarrassment in his guts. “Shut up.” He walks closer to smother his own cigar against the tray, moving to slide off his coat to expose his undershirt, a porcelain white fabric, bow tie still wrapped around his neck. “I need to take off my shirt while I do this, ok?”

“Okay, okay. I’m just a little surprised is all.” He chuckles, holding two hands up in defeat. He takes Vox’s cigar once it’s out. “Do you need any help? I’ve got plenty of hands.” He wiggles his fingers in show.

Vox feels the heat crackle even harder against his face at the sight of that almost playful smirk, of his wiggling claws, and he has to bite back the reflexive urge to back up as much as possible ( _did_ he want to back up?), turning his head away quickly in an attempt to hide the flush that was no doubt consuming the hue of his screen. “I-..I-I’m fine. I can do it myself.” He moves to start unbuttoning his shirt, antenna flickering and crackling in an effort to try to leech away the heat, slowly feeling the cloth around his torso becoming looser, looser. He wondered idly what he would see in Val’s face if he turned around. What his face looked like while he was watching him expose his skin like this. Was it something that he always wanted to see? Was it something that he didn’t realize he wanted to see until now? Was it a fantasy that he thought about late at night? For how long? 

All the words Ventriloquist had said in the few moments that Val had stepped outside ring in his ears. That he gets a certain way with people he crushes on, despite having sworn to never fall in love after whatever tragedy had befallen his previous lover. It’s like something out of Shakespeare, only, Valentino is so very not Shakespeare. He hears Valentino shift, turning away from him, either to give him privacy or otherwise look about the room some more.

“Think I can use these computers to do some of my own research while you get in there?”

“Do you know how to _use_ them?” He turns ever so slightly to glance at him. Just a peek. Just to see what his face looked like.

It's hard to make out his face, but there's a slight dusting of darker lilac across his cheeks, barely visible from the angle. He's staring more at the ceiling than anything else. "Hey, I've used computers before. I may prefer keeping my notes in ledgers, but I'm not some lollygagger when it comes to tech."

The sight of that blush is almost enough to make his heart _pound_ , a single solitary _pulse_ of a beat that seems to rumble out through his entire being, to the point where he has to pause just to make sure his innards hadn’t blown a fuse. He turns his head away just as quick, staring down towards the floor as he finally moves to slide the shirt off of his back, exposing his spinal sockets to the air, swearing that he could feel his screen starting to crackle with how much static heat was building up against it. “..If you wanna, go ahead.”

"Maybe when you're all hooked up. The information isn't going anywhere." Val shifts a little, glancing at him again. "Oh." He doesn't know what else to say as he sees the sockets in his back.

Vox desperately wants to turn around, to see the look on Val’s face, to see the longing or the lust or whatever else might be there in his eyes. He slowly turns, slowly moves to sneak a glance. Just to see if that blush on his skin was still there.

The blush is still there, his eyes glued to his sockets until he notices Vox moving. He glances at his face, then away and back again. He smirks, pretending there's nothing off about him. "Not too half bad, if I may say so myself."

Vox has to bite the inside of his lip to stop himself from saying anything. He shivered ever so slightly from the sound of his voice, and he clears his throat. “I, uh...Might need some help plugging in the wires.”

"I can help with that, sure." He lets his grin soften gently. "You may want to explain how they work, just so I don't mess anything up. Where they go, that sort of stuff."

Vox moves to glance toward the curved wall with the sturdy wires, and he moves to point at the main three encased in rubber with metallic points. “You see those ones? They line up in a row, 1, 2, and 3, and they’re all supposed to slide into my back. You only take them out after I’m done and I’ve pulled out of the grid. You got me?” He turns to look at him at that, trying to ignore how the flush on his screen must be obvious. “Those are how I get back in. If you unplug those before I get back in, I’m gonna be stuck outside my own body.”

A more serious look crosses his face as he listens to him, and he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, course. Put 'em in, don't take 'em out 'til you say." He looks over the cords again, moving closer to them. "Anything else I should know before we go messing with your...?" He waves vaguely, unsure if he should be gesturing to his head or entire body.

“Hmmm...No, no. The wires are all I need.” He lets out a sigh, and moves to turn around, his back facing the wires. “They should be lined up accordingly. 1 goes into the first socket, 2nd goes in the second socket, blah blah blah..” He glances around for a moment, before pointing towards an empty chair. “And after I go in, you’re gonna wanna sit my body down. This might take a bit.”

“Yeah, I can do that. Will you go limp, or...?” He glances at him, reaching up to grab the first cable and gently drawing it down. “Is it gonna happen when you’re all plugged in or sometime after?”

“No, no. I just tend to go stiff when I’m under. It takes a couple seconds for everything to...process, I guess. Once that happens, my screen turns to static, and I’ll be gone from my body for a bit.” He shifts slightly, trying to keep himself steady.

“Right.” He puts a hand on his shoulder and brings the cable close, but hesitates. “Tell me if I fuck up or something, alright?”

Vox shivers a touch, and slowly, ever so slowly, he moves to rest his hand atop Val’s own, moving his head to glance back at him with a soft grin, feeling the heat slide through his screen once more. “You’re gonna do fine.”

The rods slowly slid into the holes within Vox’s back with a steady _clunk_ , the metal frames of the wires sliding over the circumference of the sockets until the rims aren’t even visible anymore, and Vox notably shudders, his screen distorting briefly for a moment, his shoulders hunching, his claws briefly twitching, before clenching into light fists, his antenna crackling heavily. “Hnnn...Ok..Ok...Now you need to twist them. That locks them in. Keep turning until you hear a...a click.”

“Right. Right.” Valentino squeezes his shoulder before starting to twist the plug, feeling a small bit of resistance before hearing a solid _click_. When he pulls his hand away, it doesn’t move.

The first wire slowly begins to light up, a teal blue hue that was so reminiscent of Vox’s own talons, and his antenna begin to flare, to slowly spark between each other more and more, before it’s a steady hum of electricity that crackles and shimmers like the wires within a lightbulb. He shudders, letting out an almost shaky breath, before he nods softly, giving Val’s own hand a squeeze. “Ok...Good. Good. Keep going.”

Val shifts, watching Vox’s breathing change, and then pulls the second cord close, lining up the prongs and pressing them into the hole, twisting when Vox gives the okay. He repeats the pattern for the last one, watching as Vox shakes a bit more, antennae sparking more frequently. All the wires light up, glowing in the room. Val gently moves a hand to his elbow, scared he might just collapse on him.

By the time the third wire is locked in, Vox’s screen is starting to fuzz, to grow blurry, his speakers starting to go in and out, slightly consumed by the sound of static, all the while his antenna crackle heavily. “Ok...I’m gonna...go in now. You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Val moves more fully in front of him, unsure if Vox can still see him. “Be safe in there, alright?”

“Yeah, of course.” Vox’s own hands move to slide over Val’s shoulders, and as the static creeps in more, Val can see a grin flash over Vox’s face. “No worries, old man. No worries..” 

Finally, the static creeps over Vox’s face entirely, and though he doesn’t go limp, it becomes clear that the life that Vox held in that body is no longer there. The body is still, motionless, to the point where the muscles no longer twitched or the chest no longer moved. Just a still, silent body, with only static to fill the air. Val waits a few moments, taking in how eerie it all is to see how still he gets, living but frozen in place, and then gently moves one of his arms, trying to determine how awkward it’s going to be to set him in the chair. His arm moves upwards fluidly, gently, as if he was lifting the arm of a doll, and even when Val lets go of it, it remains frozen and stationary, not once moving to fall to the side or going limp. The screen still buzzes with static, and Vox’s body is completely silent.

“Okay, buddy. Love ya, but that’s a tad bit strange.” Val pulls back, watching to make sure he doesn’t fall over, and then quickly grabs the chair and brings it behind Vox. He carefully starts guiding him into the seat, mindful to give him space in the back for his wires. He sets him in a position that doesn’t look all too uncomfortable and steps back, looking him over to make sure nothing is out of place. He looked to be slightly hunched over so as to allow the wires, his hands hanging almost limply between his legs, elbows resting against his knees loosely, while his head was slightly angled downwards. In a position like that, the man almost looked thoughtful, or even contemplative, were it not for the eerie static overtaking his face. His antenna were still lit up, but they didn’t make so much as a sound.

"Geez." A shiver runs down his spine, eyes glancing at the wires running from his back. It'd be so easy, so simple, for someone to just tear them out of him and leave him in the void. He almost wants to double check them, make sure they're completely in, locked tight, but the idea of messing with them now, when Vox isn't talking to him, can't talk to him, makes his stomach curdle. He steps up to him again, kneeling, and cradles his screen in his hands. He presses his lips to the upper right hand corner, trying to ignore his own fear. Too many unknowns. He doesn't like it. "You better come back to me, you little bastard." He almost laughs at his own voice, shaky and stern and amused all in one. He presses their foreheads together and sighs, taking in the static that is his only response, and then straightens and turns away, moving thoughtlessly toward one of the computers.

•••

“Try not to be so imposing, dear.”

“Imposing? I’m not imposing.” Lucifer glances at Lilith out of the corner of his eye, then back down at the winding road leading to the gate that was slowly opening for one of the notable Magne cars. It was about the time for Angel Dust to make it to the house, just as the schedule had been set. He hadn’t heard any reports of mobsters or journalists following the car or even really batting an eye at it, but one could never be certain. Best to ensure everything was going to plan with his own eyes.

“You have that look in your face.” Lilith nudges him with an elbow.

“What look?”

“Like you’re ready to blow up the car.”

“Well.” The thought may have crossed his mind. “I don’t want this to be a set up. Angel sounded lovely, but he’s still mixed up with Valentino, and that man would do anything for more power. Not to mention the people he works with....”

“Remind me to not tell Val that you said that,” she says jokingly, wrapping an arm around him and hugging him against her side for the moment. “And relax a bit. I’m certain everything will be fine.”

“Right. Of course.”

The car slowly begins to make its way around the circle of the inner pathway, slowly creaking to a stop in front of the actual mansion steps. Angel, inside, catches a glimpse of a top hat with a snake and apple wrapped around it, along with a pair of imposing horns surrounded by a crown of thorns, and he can’t help but hold Nuggets a little closer to his chest, scratching between his ears with a hand, in an idle attempt to soothe his nerves. “Boy, they’re....They’re the are. The god damn Devil himself, and his wife...” He can’t help but think back on what he said to Alice as he had walked her back home, how unexpectedly different and more _subdued_ he had seemed, and yet, as he sat there, only a few scant feet away from the very fabled Lucifer himself, he couldn’t help but feel his blood run cold in his veins. This man, this tiny man that had pink cheek marks and a suit that made him look like an old timey carnival worker was not only the King of Hell itself, but could erase his very existence from this whole entire afterlife, just like that. With a snap of the damn fingers.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the sight of the chauffeur opening the door for him, by the open air slightly breezing against his fur, and he shifts a touch before letting his two lower arms move to grip the luggage he had brought with him, hefting it up as he began to make his way out of the car. 

Here goes nothing.

The chauffeur, a quiet, wolfish individual, takes one of the suitcases he had brought, freeing a hand as he steps out into the open. When he straightens, the other suitcase is slid out of his hand, and the chauffeur turns toward Lucifer and Lilith, offering them a small nod before walking past them, setting the luggage down and then returning to the car to check the trunk for anything else.

Lucifer and Lilith stand on the steps leading up to the mansion, side by side, watching Angel as he gathers his bearings. Their expressions are hard to read, all too passive to be authentic. Lucifer’s hands are hidden behind his back, his scepter, topped with an apple identical to the one on his hat, poking out from behind him. There’s an aura of impassiveness about them, a tangible sense of other, of _different_ that clings to their very beings. When Angel looked at Lucifer, there felt more like a wall than simple air dividing them. 

Lilith is the first one to move, nudging Lucifer with her elbow. “You weren’t kidding about the pet pig.”

That seems to break whatever tension Lucifer had built around himself, and his grin splits wide across his face as he looks up at her. “Since when do I kid about pets?”

She laughs softly and nudges him more noticeably, taking a step forward and offering a hand toward Angel. “Ignore the King. He’s horrendous at diplomacy.”

“Am not!” He huffs playfully and steps up alongside her.

She raises a brow at him, then looks back to Angel. “You can call me Lilith.”

“And I’m Lucifer. Obviously.” He holds his hand out beside hers, the left as opposed to Lilith’s right, in such a way that Angel can shake both their hands at the same time if he wanted to.

“Oh, uh...” Angel blinks at both of their outstretched hands for a moment before he moves to take them in both of his own, giving them the best shake he can manage. “Angel Dust. And, um..” He holds Nuggets up in front of his face, who was sniffing around and oinking contently. “This is my pet pig. He’s, uh...I call him Fat Nuggets. Nugs for short.”

“Aww. That’s a lovely name.” Lilith brings a hand up to Fat Nugget’s face, letting him sniff her hand before rubbing his cheek. She chuckles as he starts snuffling against her palm. “He’s absolutely precious. I’m glad you brought him. It’s been ages since we had a pet in the house.”

“Lilith absolutely adores the little things.” Lucifer brings his hand closer, a little more hesitant.

“I may or may not have had a crazy cat lady phase.” She smirks.

“Really?” Angel Dust lowers Nugs a little bit so she can see his face, blinking at her in surprise. “What kind of cats?” Nugs, meanwhile, leans forward to sniff Lucifer’s hand as well, blinking at it for a moment before turning to nuzzle his cheek into his palm, ears twitching.

“All sorts.” Lilith scratches behind Nugs’ ear and around a small spike protruding from his back. “Short hair, long hair, maine coons, cheetahs, specters. I’d take in strays too. They used to overpopulate the woods outside the City.”

Lucifer gently strokes over Nugs’ cheek, softly pinching him, relaxing at the silly look of the animal. So ridiculous, some of these animals. Part of the point of them, he supposed. “There may still be one or two in the house still, or around the grounds. I think.”

“I-I’m sorry, _did you say cheetahs_ ?” His eyes widen even more, and suddenly he adjusts his grip a bit more around Nugs to make sure he doesn’t start to squirm out of his arms. “Uh...T-They’re _trained_ , right?”

“Oh, certainly!” Lilith chuckles. “Tame as a house cat. They’re in the backyard. Nothing to worry about.”

“They’d rather lay on top of you and lick your hair half to death than eat anything that moves,” Lucifer jokes. “They’re incredibly friendly, actually.”

“And like I said, they’re out back. Not inside the house.”

“Oh, ok. Good, good. Sorry, I’ve just...had people try to eat Nugs before.” He idly scritches between his ears. “Bacon and what not being pretty rare down here, you know?”

“Aww, poor thing.” Lilith cups his cheeks and leans down, pressing her forehead to his snout. “No one’s going to be eating you here, I can assure you of that.” Fat Nuggets oinks happily and licks her, and she chuckles, pulling back. “You should come inside. Reginald?”

The wolf from earlier looks over at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Please bring all of Angel Dust’s belongings to Charlie’s room, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grabs the luggage and slips inside the house.

“Charlie’s inside, waiting.” Lilith casually slides a hand into Lucifer’s, squeezing. “We thought it best for us to greet you, in case of any cameras.” She beckons up the stairs and starts walking up, Lucifer following. “Come on in.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Thanks.” He nods softly, moving to follow, tugging Nugs close to his chest, flashing as polite of a smile he can muster. “I do just wanna say that, uh..I appreciate this. It, uh, means a lot to me.”

“Anything to help a friend of Charlie’s.” Lilith gives him a soft look over her shoulder. “She was really worried about you.”

“I almost want to say she didn’t sleep all last night.” Lucifer gives him a small, almost tired look himself. The doors open in unison as they approach. “The situation has rather worried her.”

“Yeah, I...I can imagine. A lot has happened, and shit’s getting really intense.” Angel can’t help but glance toward Lucifer, a question on the tip of his tongue. “..Are you..Are you gonna do anything? To stop this guy, I mean?”

“My daughter’s given me the monocle you found.” He says it bluntly, like he’s trying to be as upfront as possible. “I’m going to use it for some scrying here and there, but it’s all dependent on the rest of my schedule.”

The door closes behind them, leaving them in a long, carpeted hall with shining, marble walls, paintings and pictures hanging between the odd sculpture or vase of flowers. It’s quiet for such a large place.

“Truthfully, demonic cannibals aren’t entirely new in Hell.” Lilith frowns a little. “There’s always someone experimenting here and there. The populace of Hell doesn’t take kindly to them, but they’re also... Well, they tend to gain a sort of celebrity when the news catches wind of them. It’s a tricky situation to handle, if we don’t want to give the man any more unneeded attention.”

“Right, yeah. I mean, if I were you, I would just...snap my fingers or something to make him combust or some shit. I dunno.” He scritches Nugs between the ears, feeling his cheeks flush a touch. “Ignore me. I, uh...I talk a lot when I get nervous.”

Lucifer actually laughs at that, waving a hand dismissively. “No need. I entirely understand. And, please, curse as much as you want. I don’t hear enough of it in this house.”

“You cried the first time Charlie uttered the word ‘crap,’ dear.” Lilith narrows her eyes a touch.

“ _Anyways_ ,” He waves his hand again. “I’d love to make a demon spontaneously melt into a boiling puddle, but I’d rather not incentivize anything. It’s like training a dog. You can scold them, but you have to be clear what you’re scolding them for. Otherwise, they only get worse.”

(Somewhere else in Hell, Alastor is suddenly overcome with seething rage.)

Angel can’t help but blink at the metaphor, wincing a touch. He assumes it’s only fair that Lucifer would see mortal souls as comparable to that of pets, despite how kind of insulting the notion was, and he idly crosses his lower arms to keep them still. “Huh. A dog. Yeah. I, um...I guess you got a point there.”

Lilith clears her throat a little and Lucifer blinks, then straightens. "Oh. Um. I didn't mean that in terms of everyone, merely...." He exhales. "People who make my city unsafe for my daughter tend to get under my skin a bit. This case hits a little close to home."

"Can you tell he has a protective streak?" Lilith raises a brow at Angel.

Angel can’t help but nod softly. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely. I always heard stories and people telling other people to not mess with Lucifer’s kid, but..Jeez..” He runs a hand through his hair, glancing toward Lucifer at that. “..I will admit, you are...definitely not what I was expecting ya to look like. Can I say that? That’s not rude or anything?”

"I hear it every day of the week. It's nothing new." His smile widens. "Beside, I like it when people underestimate me. It's a strength. Not a weakness. You should remember that too, for the future."

“Right. But, uh, I gotta ask...What’s up with the carny look?” He points to the air above his head, indicating his hat. “You look like you’re about to go up on a stage and announce the arrival of a lion trained to jump through flaming hoops.”

"Carny look?" He glances at Lilith, who looks ready to start laughing. "I, uh... I mean, maybe it's a little dated, but I like how it looks. The colors suit me."

Lilith snorts, pulling him close to her side. "You look dashing, honey."

"Is it the pinstripes? It's probably the pinstripes, isn't it?"

Angel can’t help but crack his own smile, just a touch. “It, uh, might also be the top hat and the shiny boots. And the apple and snake decoration. All of it, really.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, waving a hand. "In that case, whatever. I like it! Who cares about the presses or anything."

Lilith chuckles at him, rubbing his back, and then looks over at Angel. "So you're a sex worker, right? Do you plan to continue that here, or are you taking a break?"

“Oh.” For once in his life he can feel a bit of a blush overtake his cheeks at the thought. “Uh, I might take a rain check on that kinda stuff. Wouldn’t want to, um...” He pauses for a moment, trying to find a good enough word. “...intrude.”

She smiles widely. “It wouldn’t be an issue at all. The mansion is large enough for you to have a room and no one will hear a thing. And we have a few discreet entrances the clients could use. We could probably call around and see if some of the nobility-”

“Darling, maybe that’s a conversation for another day.” Lucifer puts a hand on her shoulder. “It’d be more than simply working out the comings and goings of people. Especially if, well...” He sighs as they approach another fancy looking door. “We’d have to figure out more about this murderer’s motives, as well as discuss things with Valentino.” He glances at Angel. “He’s going to know you’re here by the end of the day. I can’t change that.”

Angel can’t help but grimace a touch, nodding at that. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I haven’t been around the guy that much, but from what I’ve seen of him, he _really_ doesn’t like his own men blatantly not following orders.” His lower hands cross together at the thought. “It’s kinda why I was a bit nervous about coming here.”

“Well, he’ll know he can’t just _bust down_ the gates. He’ll probably try and get an audience with me before he tries that.” Lucifer pushes open the doors, revealing what looks like a lounge area, with a sofa, chairs, coffee table, even a fireplace. It’s much more cozy and comfortable looking than anything else Angel had seen yet. Charlie paces along the other side of the room. “Charlie?”

Charlie’s head instantly jerks up from where she had been pacing, and when she catches sight of Angel, relief floods her face, and she quickly walks her way over, hands up as if going for a hug. “Oh thank goodness you’re here! I was honestly getting worried!” She stops short of Angel, faltering, as if realizing that he probably wasn’t able to hug her or it probably would be too awkward to do so, and her arms drop, crossing them. “I-I mean, well, I knew you were being picked up in a limo, so I knew you weren’t in any specific danger, but I, still, ya know, uh...Hi.” She flashes a weak smile, lifting up a hand to wave.

Angel can’t help but let his own weak chuckle come out, and he sticks up a hand to wave too. “Uh, heya. Thanks for, er, worrying...This is Fat Nuggets.” He holds him up for her to see, who was still oinking in a content manner, nose twitching in Charlie’s direction.

Charlie’s smile becomes a bit more genuine, and she moves to let him sniff her hand. “Heh. He’s adorable.”

“Did we ever get rid of the pen room?” Lilith glances at Lucifer. “Remember? It had the little fences and all?”

“Oh! Yes, uh...” He taps his chin. “We might have gotten rid of it. I think we did. Renovations in the 14th century, I believe.”

“Huh. Well, maybe we should make another pen room sometime.” Lilith walks further into the room, toward a cabinet toward the back. “Would anyone want any wine?”

“Me. Definitely. Definitely need some wine.” Angel’s hand immediately shoots in the air. “I ain’t gonna get drunk but damn I need something to take the edge off.” 

Charlie, still petting Nugs, merely shakes her head. “I’ll pass.”

“I’ll take some too, sweetheart!” Lucifer raises a hand as well, watching as Lilith grabs three glasses and starts filling them. He moves to take a seat at one of the chairs near the couch. “We should probably talk a little. Just simple stuff. Ground rules, to do lists, any questions you two have.”

Angel, after a moment, moves to take a seat as well, setting Nugs down, watching as the little pig starts to sniff around the room, as if investigating his surroundings. “Right, Yeah. Ground rules would be good to hear.”

Lucifer nods, crossing one leg over the other and looking over both Angel and Charlie. They both looked tired. “I’ll keep it short. I don’t really like rules, so there aren’t many. Just don’t break things for no reason, don’t set fire to the house, clean up after yourself, stay safe, and... don’t take the last cookie.”

“What happened to being serious?” Lilith walks around, handing him a glass of wine, and then reaching over to hand Angel his.

Lucifer blinks. “Eating the last cookie is very important in this house. You should know. My sweet tooth is uncontrollable.”

Lilith looks at Angel. “He pouts a lot when there aren’t sweets in the house. Then I have to deal with him moping around the house.”

“I don’t _mope_.” He huffs a little and sips his wine.

She chuckles and pokes his hat. “All I have to say is don’t drink the cabinets dry. The cellar is fair game, though.”

Angel nods softly, taking in the rather minuscule set of rules before extending a finger to point in Lucifer’s direction. “What kinda cookie do you mean by “the last one?” Like, are the sugar cookies free game? Do I only get my ass kicked if I nab the last chocolate chip? You gotta be specific here.”

There’s a half second of silence, and then both Lucifer and Lilith burst into laughter, Lucifer much more quiet than Lilith, who sways in place, snorting, and leans on the back of the Devil’s chair for support. Lucifer wags a finger, trying to bring himself back under control. “That - that was... oh. Okay.” He wheezes. “Dammit, that was good. I like you. You’re funny.”

“I didn’t think that’d be enough to break the ice. Oh my god.” Lilith wipes a tear from her eyes, smile wide and glimmering. “His favorites are snickerdoodles. _‘You gotta be specific!’_ Hah!” She wanders off for a moment, grabbing the wine bottle from earlier and bringing it to the coffee table in front of them all.

“Okay, let’s say snickerdoodles and chocolate chip are off limits for the last cookie. The rest, go wild.” Lucifer leans comfortably on the arm of his chair. “So long as there’s at least one cookie left.”

Angel himself blinks a touch at the sudden bout of laughter, having been serious about the question, but after a moment, he lets out his own chuckle, smirking to himself. “Alright, gotcha. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He sips idly at the wine, blinking a touch at the taste. “Mm. Wow, this is...a bit stronger than I expected.”

“It’s our own specialty batch.” Lilith sits on the arm of Lucifer’s chair. “Stronger, sweeter, more addictive. It’s the original recipe for Hell Wine.”

Charlie chuckles a little at the mention. “I think that was my first alcohol that I tasted. I got _so_ drunk without even meaning to.”

“It was a fun night, though.” Lilith smiles at the memory, drinking more of the wine.

“Hell Wine, huh? Well, guess it’s a good thing I’m already dead then.” He chuckles, taking a bigger sip of his own glass as well.

“Is there anything more serious we have to discuss?” Charlie cuts in before either of her parents could laugh a response at that, and all the eyes in the room shift to her. “I mean... I don’t want to be a downer, but...”

“No, no, you’re right.” Lucifer sits a bit more upright, leaning forward to set his glass down. “So both of you know, I’m already looking into the whereabouts of Alastor. From what I can tell, he’s moved into the West side. I don’t know if he’s with your friend yet, but I should find out pretty soon.”

“And I’m looking through personal hires for anyone who seems reliable enough to do on the ground reconnaissance.” Lilith nods a little at the looks both of them give her. “Currently, we just want to know where he is, so that we can work out a proper timeframe for decision making.”

“And that’s only because of the assumption that he might be after you, Angel. You’re safe here. It’s all but impossible for anyone to break into here. There’s nothing for either of you to worry about while you’re inside the mansion or on the grounds.”

Angel’s stomach can’t help but do flips the moment he hears that man’s name, his claws idly clenching, his mind flashing back to containers full of diced flesh and a frozen arm that had yet to be washed of blood. He takes a deep breath, nodding softly. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll try to keep that in mind. And, uh, if these guys you’re trying to hire _do_ find Alice, make sure she doesn’t get hurt. Please.”

“Of course. I’m trying to be as precise as possible for the situation.” Lilith offers him a reassuring grin.

“We’ll try and handle all of that from here, though. You two don’t need to worry about doing anything on that front.” Lucifer threads one of his hands into Lilith’s. “The only thing we may need your help with is dealing with Valentino and his gang. Valentino can be patient, but sometimes he can snap. I don’t think he’ll be so troubled as to run up here, but he might get a bit angry or possibly hold a grudge. Angel, you already shouldn’t be out on the streets, given Alastor. Charlie...”

Her face hardens. “Dad-”

“No, I’m not - I’m not going to keep you here. At all. Either of you.” He holds his hands up. “If you want to leave, at any time, you can go. But I want you to know that it’s possible Valentino’s gangster could target you. Even if it’s just following you or the car. They may try to intimidate me and your mother through you.”

There was a small pause of silence before Charlie shifts in her seat, bending down a bit to give Fat Nuggets a little scratch behind the ears. “Well...Maybe we can get some help on that end.”

“Help? From who?” Angel shifts to glance at her, raising a brow. “Who in their right mind would be willing to take on Valentino’s mob?” 

She bites her lip a touch, and for a moment, she doesn’t answer. “..Sir Pentious.”

Lucifer purses his lips. “You mentioned yesterday that he had been looking for Alastor. It sounded like he wanted him for murdering one of his... affiliates. Was there anything else that he said?”

“Well...” She leans back on the couch, crossing her arms. “He had said that Alastor apparently ripped out the throats of one of his soldiers, and he ripped it out with his _teeth_ too. He didn’t know Alastor’s name, but he did manage to somehow figure out his human name, and they were trying to do research on him in the West side library...” She goes quiet for a moment. “Nora was with him. Apparently they work together now, and, she also supposedly saw Alice at some point, though she can’t precisely saw _where_. So, as far as we know, Alice is still alive. And Pentious gave me the offer of letting me roam around the West side to look for Alastor in exchange for giving him all the information I get. So, at the very least...We know he’s willing to find Alastor, and he’d most likely be willing to keep an eye on Valentino’s goons.”

Lilith and Lucifer share a look, something uncertain passing between them, and Lilith takes a drink from her glass while Lucifer continues. “I suppose we could use that. It’s good to know that Nora is working with him.” He rubs his face, thinking. “I... don’t want you to think of Sir Pentious as a _safe_ alternative, though. He’s always planning something extra. Not always nefarious, but... he’s dangerous. Even if we share a common interest or enemy.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I just think, you know, he’s probably the most capable of holding Valentino back if he tries something. I mean, we both _saw_ that giant laser that flew through the air, didn’t we?”

Angel’s eyes widen, and he shoots up from where he had reclined in his seat. “Wait, wait, wait! _What_ ? That-That giant fucking death beam that just shot through the sky, was fucking _Pentious_?”

“Presumably, and from reports I’ve received, yes.” Lucifer sighs lightly. “It’s in line with some of the technology he’s created over the last decade. From what we can tell, it’s a precision shot, barely enough to destroy a single building. It only _looked_ as horrible as it did because it was amplified to reach a certain distance.”

“Holy _shit_...” Angel sits back in his seat, a hand rubbing over his face. “Lasers...How the fuck did that maniac get his hands on lasers..”

“Well, he’s had lasers since the 50s...” Lucifer stops himself as Lilith nudges him. “I mean, I’m working on that as we speak. 

“..Right..” Charlie doesn’t look particularly soothed, but she lets out a sigh. “Well...We don’t even know if Valentino will do anything yet, so...I say we see if anything happens, and then we try to figure out how to deal with it.”

“One thing at a time, yes.” Lucifer grins, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip. “The only thing left, I believe, is a tour around the place and deciding where you’re sleeping, Angel.”

“Oh, uh, right. Yeah. How, uh, how big is this place, exactly?” He twirls a finger through the air to indicate the whole palace.

“Forty-six rooms in total.” Lucifer smirks. “You don’t have to look at everything. We’ve figured out a few guest rooms that you could use, and then there’s the kitchen, dining room, and a few rec rooms.”

“If you want, you can go with Charlie to her room and start from there?” Lilith runs a hand over Lucifer’s shoulders. “Charlie knows which rooms are prepared already, if you want to get rid of the two of us.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure, if you want.” Charlie glances toward Angel, moving to pick up Fat Nuggets in her arms, who merely oinks and snuggles against her chest.

Angel, after a moment, merely shrugs and nods softly, moving to stand from the couch. “Yeah, yeah, might as well see the layout of this place, if I’m gonna be staying here for a while.”

“Certainly. Feel free to go everywhere.” Lucifer offers him a small grin, then blinks. “Oh, except my study. It’s still a mess of drawing boards and chess pieces.”

“Chess pieces?” Angel raises a brow. 

“I’ll tell you on the tour. It’s a lot more weird than it sounds, trust me.” Charlie rolls her eyes and moves to open the door to another hallway. 

“Alright, if you say so. And watch it with holding Nugs like that: he tends to try to eat buttons on my clothes all the time, so be careful.” The door falls shut behind him, and the room falls mostly silent.

Lucifer lets out a sigh almost immediately, leaning his head back. “Today is going to be a long day, isn’t it, Lili?”

“Yes, yes. It certainly will be.” She sips at her wine, pulling him a touch closer. “At least things have gotten a bit more interesting, have they not?”

“Oh, definitely.” He grins, bringing a hand around her waist and shifting to lean his head against her side. “I think I’ll finish my wine and then get to work. You?” He looks up at her.

“Mmm. I’m not sure. Might go tend to my garden. Might go tend to my own work. Not quite sure yet.” She shrugs softly.

“You’ve had a long week. You could do with a break.” He presses his lips against her side and nuzzles against her.

“Hmm. And you say that like you don’t deserve one too.” She smirks a bit at that, letting her own hand briefly trail down to teasingly curl a lock of his hair around her talon.

“Mm, at the end of the week.” His words come out muffled against her, and he can’t help but smile and chuckle a little at himself. He pulls back after a moment. “He really said I have a carny look, didn’t he?”

“Heheh. Yes, yes, he did.” She smirks down at him. “It _does_ have a bit of a ringmaster panache to it, admittedly.”

He makes a small disgruntled noise. “Well, I guess I _am_ the ringmaster of Hell.”

“Hehehe.” She moves to pick up his chin with a hand. “Be it a ringmaster or a King, you’ll still be my wonderful fallen angel.”

•••

Living on the West side of the Pentagram is _much_ more different than living in the East. Niffty is used to dodging goons, crossing streets to avoid the random shady looking demon, even bolting to dodge bullets at turf wars to kick up dust. In the West, there's little of that. There's occasionally someone in an alley holding a knife, but most of the time there's simply other demons walking around, occasionally hurling insults or slurs, but largely keeping to themselves. There's even a few street vendors selling ice cream. Some sell drugs. Some sell pizza. She knows one of the pizza guys by now, but he doesn't seem to be around at the moment.

She notices all this as she's on her way to Nora's house, hefting a large plate of cookies wrapped in cellophane. She steps up to her door and stretches to knock on the middle of it, not quite tall enough to reach the big brass knocker that sits at least a good few inches higher up. "It's Niffty!"

There was a small amount of clicking, no doubt from the locks on the other side of the door being undone, before the door itself swung open, and Nora’s beak and sharp-toothed grin became visible. “Ahh, hello, Niffty! Glad to see you decided to come by! Please, do come in, do come in.” She holds the door open wide for her. “What is it that you got there?”

“Just some sugar cookies. Felt like making them last night.” Niffty slides in, skirting around Nora’s legs. “Figured if I was coming by, I may as well bring something too, you know? I was gonna make chocolate chip, but it turned out we didn’t have any chocolate in the house.”

“Ah, quite the conundrum, to be sure. I know I’ve had my days where I find there’s no chocolate to be seen. Heheh.” She chuckles a touch at that, moving to close the door and lock it back up again behind her. “How have things been? Any problems with the West side that have come up? Try as Pentious might, he can’t always get rid of all troublemakers who make their way into his territory.”

“It’s actually been really nice! No one trying to break into the house, no unexplained blood splatter at the market place - mostly. I didn’t even have any issues getting over here!” She chuckles, moving toward the kitchen. “Obviously, there’s still all the... Hell parts to everything. But I’ve been pretty good. Alastor... not so much. He apparently got into a massive bar fight. He didn’t even notice he had glass in his neck until I pointed it out to him.” Her tone takes a bit of a sour note at the end. “I don’t understand him sometimes.”

“Hmm. I think I may have heard about that from Loralai when I visited her to see how that initial meeting went...” Nora’s beak tilts toward the floor, her voice dipping into an almost hushed tone, before she glances toward Niffty, frowning softly, lips closing around her teeth. “...Are you alright, dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine, just...” She exhales, reaching to slide the tray onto the counter before putting her hands on her hips and turning to Nora. “Can I rant a bit? Just a little? Because Alastor said a few things and I don’t know how to take it, but it’s kinda - well, it’s kinda pissing me off but not? I don’t know.”

Nora seems to blink at that, some of her feathers seeming to rustle, before she softly nods, moving to walk into the living room. “Please, do tell. He hasn’t _done_ anything, has he?”

Niffty follows her. “No, he hasn’t. I mean, yes, but... no. He told me that he’s a serial killer, and that he wants to kill the person who killed me.” She hops onto the couch, pulling her legs up and frowning. “And I... I _get_ that this is Hell, and killers are a dime a dozen, but... I don’t know. You hear about serial killers and how they work, but you never think you’ll ever actually _know_ one, and now I do.”

Nora doesn’t say anything for a moment, moving to sit down in the armchair in the corner, her arms folding in her lap, beak tilted slightly down. “...Serial killers are probably the most dangerous and most elusive kind of people to exist, that much is for certain.” She glances up toward Niffty, frowning. “Has he said anything...threatening, dear? Said anything that may sound like it could be dangerous?”

“No, not at all. Aside from saying that he’s not going to stop killing and all that.” She purses her lips, looking aside. “It’s weird. He acted so understanding. I think he told me that he’s a serial killer because I said that I didn’t like killing? At least, not the random killings that happen down here. He said he wanted me to _know who I’m sharing the house with_.” She rolls her eye, though some of the annoyance fades from her. “And then he started talking about how if I want to continue helping people the way I helped him, then I’ll end up helping people like him - murderers. It kinda sounded like he was telling me there’s no use in helping people, but...” She shrugs again.

“..From what I’ve been able to tell, he does have a..bleak outlook on the way things are down here. Not so much bleakness as in that of a depressive mindset, but more from that of how morality should function. To him, this is Hell, where death has no consequence until the end of every year, and where the most depraved of beings go when they die.” Nora sighs softly, eyes glancing off toward the side. “..He probably isn’t used to someone still wanting to stick to..more upstanding morality.”

Niffty nods a little at that, not finding anything remarkably off about it. “I made a deal with him about not killing inside the house. The only time it’s okay is if someone’s breaking in. He accepted it pretty quickly.”

“..Did he offer that deal?” She tilts her head ever so slightly.

“No, I did. He was pretty surprised about it.” She relaxes a bit against the couch. “I’m going to be bringing people in from off the streets, so I have to make sure he’s not going to try anything. And I think he understood it. He didn’t make any kind of fuss, aside to point out that he should probably be allowed to kill someone if they break in.” She frowns again and waves her hands, frustrated again. “See? This? It doesn’t make any God damned sense! He’s a killer. He _apparently_ was a serial killer on Earth. He’s been doing this for at least thirty years, maybe forty. But he wants to help me, helps me get an entire house, and _agrees_ to not kill within the house? No fuss? I can tell that he understands it all, understands why, but how can he understand all that and then go along and continue killing people?”

“Hmm..” Nora hums softly to herself, but then sighs. “...Some people are fully aware of what they do. They know it’s wrong, they understand how heinous it is, but they just don’t care. There isn’t any guilt. There isn’t remorse. Merely...satisfaction, and nothing else. I should know, considering who I work for, and even then, sometimes I can’t make any sense of it.”

“I can only imagine...” She looks up at her. “Actually, that’s something else. When I met Pentious, he was terrifying. Alastor just seems... I dunno. Intrigued? Amused? Which I guess makes sense if he’s so used to murder and all, I dunno.” Niffty shifts in her seat. “He said he’s going to tell Pentious, but he, uh, started researching him? Taking notes from a few books and stuff. He was laughing at some of the stuff he found.”

“Research, you say?” Something about her voice sounds almost absent, as if her thoughts were drifting off, before she shifts a touch in her seat. “Hmm...So you still wish to continue your practices as a nurse, yes? And Alastor seems to..disapprove of this.”

Niffty frowns a little at the turn in conversation. “Not... exactly. I don’t think he cares as much about it, or entirely understands it, but he specifically said that he wasn’t saying I should stop. More like he wants me to think about it more or be more careful or something.”

“Hmmm..” She goes quiet for a moment. “..Perhaps he is worried that what happened to you with that man will happen again. Hell is quite the horrid place, and considering how new you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if he grew nervous over your own safety.”

“Maybe. It’s hard to read him at times, especially since he’s smiling all the time.” She goes quiet, frowning. “It’s weird to think he could be nervous about anything. He’s always so confident.”

“..He does seem to have a rather..impenetrable facade at times, yes. But a facade nonetheless.” She sticks up a finger. “A smile can hide many things, after all.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” Niffty chuckles a little at that, though she can’t tell what emotion is fueling it. “I just wish he’d open up a bit more. I can tell he’s hiding things from me. About his health, his past, what he’s doing now.” She sighs. “I dunno. I shouldn’t even want to know, given what he’s already said.”

Nora seems to be quiet for a moment, before she lets out a touch of a sigh. “..It isn’t wrong to be concerned for a friend. Even if Alastor is a little bit...unique, in terms of the _kind_ of person to make friends with.”

Niffty seems to relax a bit at that. “Yeah. You’re right.” She exhales, running a hand through her hair and smiling again. “Sometimes I think I’m used to all the weirdness of Hell and then something happens to make me question that. Is it like that all the time down here?”

“Hehehe..Would you believe me if I said that even after 400 years or so, I’m still not able to get used to it?” She flashes her own toothy grin, chuckling at that. “After all, only 40 years ago did I happen to come across what was once the most infamous man on the planet at the time, and he wasn’t even an Overlord then.”

"Pentious?" It's the obvious guess, but something about it doesn't quite sit right with her. She narrows her eye and shifts to look at her more directly. "Are you telling me he wasn't an Overlord until recently? I mean, 40 years is a long time, but he's been around more than twice as long."

“It’s certainly a bit odd to think about, yes?” Her grin almost grows smug, and she lets out another chuckle. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, he certainly was _on his way_ to achieve such a status, but it wasn’t until the 1940’s that he was finally able to take the last step of killing a previous Overlord to obtain that title. He certainly gave everyone in the Pentagram a show that day, that’s for damn sure.”

“Whoa, wait, he _killed_ an Overlord to become an Overlord?” She blinks, eye wide. “Is that... Is that how they all become Overlords? I thought there’d be a more... stable? Method.”

“Well, it’s the more _known_ method. Theoretically, there are more ways to do so, but a good _murder_ is what people agree to be the most _effective_ way to speed up the process. After all, can’t exactly get tossed off your pillar and gun for revenge if you’re dead, no?” Her grin doesn’t seem to drop at that, almost looking pleased. “Admittedly, the thought has piqued my interest a couple times. Of claiming such a title for myself. But, well, I already have one, and trying to clamber for another would just be little more than wanton greed on my part. And greed is what tends to get people killed down here.”

“Heh. Yeah. I can only imagine.” Niffty rubs her neck again, considering that. She really hasn’t been paying attention to Overlord politics beyond what is necessary. She can’t imagine that it’s anything particularly pleasant to be a part of. “To be honest, most of my past patients have been victims of the gangs. Usually because they got in trouble with money. Got a little greedy, definitely.” She looks back at Nora. “Which reminds me. You wanted to tell me about the medical facilities, right?”

Her more sadistic grin falls away into a look of mild surprise, before its quickly vanished away by a smaller, more pleased smile, and she nods twice, beak bobbing in that almost stiff fashion that seemed to be so notable in her moments. “Oh, yes, indeed. Indeed I did, thank you for reminding me, dear. Tell me, how long have you been practicing medicine exactly?”

“Ah. Legally?” She flashes a quick smile. “I was technically only shadowing or doing basic stuff for four years, before and during college.” She fidgets a little. “I was sixteen when I started volunteer work, mostly just helping draw blood for the Red Cross. And I helped with deliveries too, so I got pretty acquainted with medications pretty quickly. But before that, I was always reading books on anatomy and first aid and illnesses and everything. I was better at cleaning a cut than my dad was.” She chuckles softly. “So, uh, two years volunteer work, two and a half in college and during internships, and lots of technical studies for... I’d say maybe four years? I’ve wanted to be a nurse since I was twelve, maybe younger.” Her smile thins a little, something bittersweet crossing it, and she looks aside.

“Four years, hm? Impressive, dear, very impressive.” She chuckles a touch at that, nodding in obvious approval. “They let you actually gain an education in the medical field, did they? How wonderful.” She leans a bit forward at that, almost conspiratorially. “It might come as a bit of a shock, but the 1300’s weren’t exactly the most progressive when it came to a lady wanting to be a doctor.”

Niffty chuckles at that, her smile widening again. “Oh, I’ve heard. Things have definitely gotten better, but, well...” She shrugs slightly and gives her a look. “Men still don’t take us seriously, even when we clearly know more than them. We’re still not let into certain colleges, and it’s even more difficult to actually find a hospital that doesn’t want you to be working at a counter or as a delivery nurse. But last I heard, we were kicking up such a fuss that it was starting to hit national headlines.” She smiles brightly. “We’re definitely getting some change on that front, I can assure you.”

“Good to hear! Good to hear.” She nods twice again, her grin seeming to gain some vibrancy. “Well, I suppose even if I can’t see that progress for myself, the least I can do is pass off some knowledge, one aspiring medical worker to another.” Her grin turns into more of a playful smirk, winking. “And no worries, Niffty dear, I know better than to perform bloodletting and leeches nowadays. I’m not one of those old fuddy-duddies that blindly stick to their fashions all the time. Not with something like medicine.”

She giggles at the wording. “That’s good to hear. I have actually met a few people who were... a bit behind in the times of medical care.” She tilts her head, grin growing a little more cocky. “I wonder if there’s something I know that you don’t. Something new, you know?”

“Oh?” She narrows her eyes a bit, and she crosses her arms, head swiveling so that one eye is facing her in a pointed stare. “Is that so? You think you know more than _me_? The woman who’s been studying medicine for her entire afterlife?” Her tone is teasing, almost rhetorical, indicating the goading is all in jest.

“Well, I just so happen to have been studying medicine almost my entire cognizant life.” Niffty crosses her arms in response, holding up her chin. “I’m certain I have a few cards up my sleeve that you have yet to gain.”

“Hmmm..” Her grin slowly grows more toothy, and she chuckles to herself. “How about I show you a few of the medical facilities that Pentious has and we can find out?”

“Ooh! Really?” Her eye widens and she leans forward eagerly. “You can do that? Can I see all the equipment that’s down there? Do you have actual stocks of medicine?”

Her toothy grin drops for a moment, but then comes right back as Nora lets out a slight chortle of a laugh, shaking her head even as she moves to stand. “Of course we do, my dear! What kind of medical facility _doesn’t_ have stocks of medicine? Or equipment for that matter!”

“I - I haven’t even been to or seen a hospital since I’ve gotten down here!” She giggles, giddy with excitement. “The only places I’ve seen that have any kind of drugs are the Black Market and drug dealers.”

“Heheh. Why do you think I have my own little shop there, dear? I take my own little bit of the stocks that Pentious collects to sell to whoever I can.” She moves to slowly walk her way out of the living room. “We usually have to have them smuggled in from the living world, believe it or not. Since Hell is so different from Earth, the usual medicinal drugs that we’d be able to produce up there can no longer be found down here. After all, this is the afterlife, and I doubt the afterlife has the kind of plants and chemicals that can produce a good bottle of morphine when you need it.”

“Oh, that’s a good point.” Niffty hurries after her, thinking about that. “I guess there have been people trying to study the animal and plant life down here for a while then. I mean, you mentioned a little of it in your books. Are there still people working on that? I mean, it must be difficult getting things from Earth, right?”

“For most, it’s supremely difficult to get ahold of anything from the living world, yes. But, as they say, money makes the world go round and whatnot. After all, the substances that come from the Earth would be the most highly sought after, would they not?”

"Definitely seems like it!" Niffty chuckles rubbing her hands together. "Oh, this is going to be great. Maybe I can get my hands on some better scalpels and needles. Sewing needles, that is. Maybe I could use some forceps too..." She hums, running through a mental list of potential items she could use.

“Heheh. Don’t go snatching everything in sight now. There are doctors on his staff list that need those scalpels as much as you.” She moves to unlock the door to the basement, pausing for a moment. “...Come to think of it, this will be first time you see Pentious’s operations, won’t it?”

"Uh... Yeah, I think so. We met up here, not in his bunker. But he told me about it. Not much. Just that it exists." She points at her head. "You know that thing he can do where he sends sort of... thought images into your head? He showed me a few of the places in there."

“Heheh. Well, then you’re in for quite the treat.” The door to the basement creaks open, and she moves to slowly start to walk down the stairs. “Come along now. The trip won’t take that long but there is a bit of a walk.”

“Oh, I don’t mind walking! I’m quite fast, actually.” She hops down each step, excitedly following her. She rubs her hands together, holding back from squealing. “So _excited_!”

“Heheh. Mind some of the clutter down here, dear. I have a lot of different antiques around this part of my home.” She flicks the light on once they get to the bottom of the stairs, and right away, Niffty’s eye catches everything, from the shelves of strange relics and preserved organs, to the mysterious half open door that seemed to contain the shadowy frame of a surgery table, to the sight of the mounted angel wings hung up on the wall, complete with the untouched mask, it’s paint work showing off a grizzly, smiling face.

“Whoa....” Niffty feels a brief chill run up her spine at the sight of everything - the angel wings more than anything else - and shifts a little closer to Nora. The organs and surgery table gave the place a generic morgue feel, though somewhat combined with the idea of a basement used for storage, both of which she’s used to. But the angel wings... She has to suppress a shudder as images of the exterminations came to mind. “Are... are those... _real_?”

Nora pauses for a moment, but only a moment, grin slowly fading, before she nods softly, moving to slowly rest a hand on Niffty’s shoulder, her gaze shifting toward the wings. “...Yes. Yes, they are.”

Niffty brings a hand up to cover Nora’s claws, staring at the wings almost incomprehensibly. “I... I almost thought it was impossible to...”

“...No, dear. It’s not.” She sighs, softly, before she slowly holds out her other hand, claws curled upward as if gripping the air, and with a _hiss_ of crackling smoke and popping embers, one of her hooks slides into her palm, the hook itself dangling while her fingers hold the chain, the whole surface of the weapon wreathed in a bright red glow.

Niffty's eye widens and she tenses, not stepping away but staring warily at the weapon. "I..." She swallows and looks up at Nora. "I did notice that Alastor wasn't exactly... thrilled to see you. I thought he just didn't like meeting new people, but he also said... _Pseudonyms_." Her eye focuses on the hook, the glow of it. "I have heard of the Whip Wraith before."

“..Apologies, dear. I..wasn’t sure how you’d react.” She slowly clenches her claws around the chain, not moving. “I know I’m not exactly _feared_ among most, but..Well, people tend to be on edge when they see me anyway. I didn’t want you to think of me as some..fabled monster.”

“I’ve always been of the opinion that the, uh, ‘monsters’ aren’t exactly as scary as people make them out to be.” Niffty grins gently, bringing a hand up to her wrist and squeezing. “Even medics need to know how to incapacitate people, be it fatally or not.”

There was a slight pause, before Nora gently smiles back, and she lets out a soft chuckle, patting her shoulder with her other hand. “Thank you, dear.” The fingers holding the chains go slack, and the hook vanishes with another puff of smoke.

Niffty grins a bit wider, though her eye darts back to the wall of wings. “Don’t mention it.” She takes a deep breath and smiles at Nora. “So, which way do we start walking? I’m getting the feeling there’s some kind of hidden entrance nearby.”

“Heheheh. You’d be correct. How’d you figure it out? Have a flair for the dramatic?” She moves to walk over to a singular shelf in the corner of the room, moving to shift a jar aside before starting to slowly press what seems to be a bunch of buttons, though she can’t quite tell what it is she’s pressing from the angle.

“Let’s just say I’ve come across my own fair share of secret hatches and bookshelf doors while down here.” She chuckles and follows her, eager to see what comes next.

With a loud _hum_ and an even louder _click_ , there comes a rumbling tremor beneath both of their feet, and Niffty turns around just in time to witness the blank spot upon the wall between two shelves splitting in half before slowly opening up, the lights from within the tunnel opening up to display the same fuchsia carpeted floors and the walls covered in snake-like scale patterns that Nora’s seen so many times before. She lets her grin grow a bit wider, moving to walk closer to Niffty, glancing down at her. “Well? Does it hold up to your expectations?”

“Whoa!” Her eye is wide, almost glimmering in the lighting of the room, and in an instant she’s at the door, a blur of movement and energy. “Oh my god, it’s so much cooler than I expected! Better than what I’ve seen at any rate. Can I go in? Or should you go first? Oh my god, I just want to explore this thing all day now.”

“Heheh! Would you believe me if I told you this was just the walk to the _path_ to get to Pentious’s facility?” She flashes an almost cheeky grin at the sight of how excited the little cyclops is. “Want me to tell you what’s up ahead or should I keep quiet?”

“Oh my _god_ , it gets better than that!?” She almost visibly vibrates in place. “Mmm. Better to keep it a surprise. I like surprises.”

“Heheheh. Very well, come along then.” She moves to start walking into the pathway, her eyes glowing softly in the dim lighting of the hall. “I don’t think even _Alastor_ was this excited. At least not at this point.”

“Seriously? Oh, I need to wring his ear or something. How could he not be excited about this? It’s a secret tunnel, _underground_ , to a secret, _underground_ base! What’s there not to love?”

•••

Alastor exhales softly as he closes and locks the door to his current home, slipping the keys back into his pocket as he stretches and yawns. His back cracks in a few places, and he groans, glad to be properly walking again rather than stuck in a truck full of potentially explosive material. He'd like to think that Pentious would know better than to ship nitroglycerin in such large quantities, but maybe there isn't any other options for certain things. The radio clicks on in the other room, a soft song cooing to fill the emptiness of the building. He hums softly to ” _Murder,” He Says_ by Dinah Shore, an on and off again favorite of his, as he pulls the holster (pistol and all) from his belt. Best not to be encumbered with any instruments that could go off while he’s trying to prepare dinner.

He sets the weapon on top of the fridge, in the odd space where a cabinet hung over it, and opens the appliance to peruse his options for the evening. He taps his fingers on the side of the fridge for a moment, his lips pursed in thought, before he spots what was surely the leftovers of that wonderful chicken dinner that Niffty had prepped last night, and he lets a grin overtake his face once more as he moves to pull the tin foiled container out of the fridge, placing it on the countertop. It’s only when he closes the fridge does he pause again, ever so slightly, and slowly, he moves a hand to his chin, eyes narrowed, before he slowly peeks around the kitchen walls toward the basement door. The basement that held the smaller freezer which also held the packaged meat. The same meat that he now knew for certain was Rex.

He feels his appetite both flare up and sour all at once and he has to stop himself from sinking his teeth into his lips, feeling a dull bubbling of anger start to work up in his chest. He had honestly been so preoccupied with bringing Niffty the records and reading that book that he had completely forgotten about the package, the “gift” from this mysterious killer. He had brought a portion of the meat up to the fridge to defrost, still wrapped and tucked neatly behind an array of condiments and hellish fruits. “Alastor’s meal” is written across it, in the hopes of deterring Niffty from opening it should she find it. Hopefully. In all honesty, he isn’t completely comfortable with keeping his food in the same fridge as hers. But it’d look too suspicious to do otherwise. There’s also the issue of regeneration. Freezing definitely helps to halt the process, as does wrapping the meat individually, but it‘s still something he has to worry about. Demons tend to regrow from bones if they’re available as well. More energy expended to rebuild bone than to rebuild muscles and organs. He didn’t find any in the box, so he had to assume that his mystery admirer had either kept them, or tossed them out.

His stomach grumbles and he exhales, glancing back at the chicken. Maybe Niffty would rather have an easy dinner when she got back home. Chances are he’d eat the rest of the leftovers. He enjoys cooking as well, so.... He swallows and opens the fridge again, placing the chicken back where he had taken it and rooting around for his cannibal special. It doesn’t feel frozen anymore. Cold, certainly, but not frozen. He sets the slab onto the counter and glances at the rest of the fridge for sides. He finds what looks to be an unopened container of mac and cheese, and judging by how it has Rosie’s face on the lid, it must’ve been a custom gift that came with the house. After a moment of idle consideration, he finally moves to place the container on the counter as well. At least if it was sponsored by Rosie, he knew it was good to eat. She always had a way of luring in the best chefs in the Pentagram to work for her.

Alastor grabs a pot and pan from the kitchen cabinet, glancing over the instructions on the can of mac and cheese to see if it needs any additional ingredients. Nope. Just needs to be preheated. Already pre-made. Fantastic. He pulls out a cutting board, sets the slab of Rex meat on top, and carefully unwraps the paper.

The smell hits him first, same as when he first found the package, but he’s ready for it this time. No saliva, no visceral reactions. Nothing but calm humming as the song cruised into a higher pace. He draws a wide knife from the block nearby and starts slivering off some of the fat. The cuts already made to the meat are expertly made. No jagged lines. Proper thickness for a steak. He starts cutting it into slivers, glancing at the pan to see if he’d need a larger one. Hm. Should be fine. He focuses back on the meat he’s slicing.

It’s honestly incredible how easily such a thing can be mistaken for regular meat, for a regular steak, despite it being so very much the opposite. Sure, there were some demons that tended to have meat and innards that were different from what they once were, with some meat having different colors and textures and tastes, but now, with this raw, bright red steak, one could easily just mistake it for a plain old boneless rib-eye, and it was enough to have him lick his lips a touch. He would have to be more careful to make sure Niffty wouldn’t eat any of this; she knew about his killing now, yes, but that didn’t mean she deserved the horror of accidentally stumbling into cannibalism.

Much less did he want to _explain_ such an accident. It’s one thing to learn that the individual you are cohabitating with happens to have made a hobby out of killing people. It’s quite another to realize that he’s _eating_ them as well. Much easier to simply avoid the topic altogether. He flicks on the heat under the pan and wipes his hands on a towel, grabbing the salt and pepper and coating the slices. If he were more patient, he’d have made a marinade of some sort. But he isn’t, so he merely tosses the meat into the pan, sorts it out so they’re not on top of each other, and listens as the meat sizzles. In a few minutes, the room is going to smell wonderful. It feels like it’s been ages since he last smelled fresh demon steak. He adds some more salt to the pan and stirs.

He stands there for a few moments, ear flicking ever so slightly at the sound of the sizzling of the meat, before he moves to pick up the packaged container of mac and cheese, pursing his lips for a moment, as if in idle thought. Then he moves to open up the container’s lid, quickly grabbing a pot and setting it over another part of the stove, cranking up the heat to spark the flame, grabbing a fork as he begins to slowly push the pre-made meal into the pot. “Hmmm...Would it be too overkill to add more seasoning to it? Knowing Rosie, it probably has seasoning in it...”

He eyes the last bit of mac and cheese in the container, then shrugs and scoops it into his mouth, chewing away. “Hm. Definitely more seasoning.” He tosses some pepper in, then reaches for the seasoning cabinet for the cayenne, paprika, and mustard powder. He adds a little bit of each, adds a little more cayenne and paprika, a little more paprika, and then sets them aside and starts stirring. The pan starts sizzling a bit more and he turns his attention to it, carefully turning over the steak to let it simmer on the other side. Just a few more minutes later and he’s tipping the steak into the mac and cheese, stirring it together. Simple, easy, quick dinner. He glances at the cayenne pepper, considering whether or not to add more to the pot.

He takes a moment to scrutinize the canyenne pepper shaker bottle in his hand, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, lip curling between his teeth, clucking his tongue as he tries to figure out this seasoning dilemma. On one hand, he didn’t want it to wind up so unbearably overseasoned that it wound up being unpleasant to eat, but on the other, he certainly didn’t want to have to take a bite and then have to get back up to put in more seasoning either. It certainly was a dilemma, certainly one indeed-

He stiffens a touch as he feels a slightly sudden pain drift up the side of his temple, not _terrible_ but enough to get him to wince ever so slightly, raising his other hand to idly rub at the side of his head, wondering if it was some odd muscle spasm. There was a few seconds of a pause, before the pain came again, a bit sharper this time, a bit harder, and this time, it’s enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Ghn.” He carefully sets the bottle down, squeezing his right eye shut and pressing his hand against his temple. He takes a deep breath, waiting for the feeling to pass, for the pain to ebb away. He’s had issues with his eye before. There isn’t any metal in his brow like there had been on Earth, but that didn’t keep Hell from mimicking the odd pains he had experienced. The sharpness dulls away, leaving an ache, and he lets his breath ease out between his teeth.

The pain comes again, twice, thrice as bad as before, and he gasps, grabbing at the counter as the pain lances down his temple, across his jaw, and down his spine. “Ah-! Ggh-” He feels one of the seasonings hit his hand, tumbling onto its side. The smell of spices fills his nose and he clenches his eyes shut, swearing he can hear ringing in his ears.

The pain seems to only increase in intensity within his temple, pulsing, stabbing, _pounding_ , more and more by every second, until his claws were clutching the side of his head, his side bumping against the kitchen counter, teeth gritted together. It felt as if someone was taking a knife and trying to slowly stab it into the side of his head to pierce his skull, felt as if they were sinking in the blade and jerking it up and down in hopes of getting to his brain, and as it _sears_ through his mind, he can barely recognize that he lets out a sharp scream before he feels himself drop to the floor.

Something clatters next to him. Through the haze of pain and a desperate attempt to keep himself quiet, he feels something warm and wet against his hand. On his next inhale, he smells blood. His own. " _Shit_." Another wave hits him and he all but bows against the ground, forehead touching tiles as he groans and grits his teeth. This isn't some kind of latent effect of Hell. This isn't what that pain feels like at all. It's too focused, too radiating. He huffs, forcing himself to blink through the blood clouding his vision.

Think. _Think_. What could be happening? It's not biological. It's not hellish. He didn't eat any brain eating worms. Magic? Not his own. Not an overuse, and definitely not a repercussion of that laser firing. Right? Dammit, the pain is getting unbearable. He pushes up from the floor, his right hand sliding from the blood on his palm. Right. His right eye. He hasn't had his monocle in a while now. Too risky to retrace his steps at this point, and no way was he going to ask someone else to retrieve it. His head touches the ground again as the ringing in his ears grows louder, shoulders trembling under the pressure, swearing his head is seconded from exploding.

The pain all seems to _radiate_ at once in one sweeping motion of jagged, _stabbing_ agony, cascading down his jaw, down his neck, across his temple, pooling into his eye until he swears as if it would burst open and start to catch aflame. He can feel the blood starting to drip down his cheek bone, feels his breathing become tight, and within the depth of that agony, he suddenly feels the pressure on his head warp, feels it lessen and yet not entirely go away, taking a backseat to something new, something...sinister, feeling as if it was _probing_ within his own head, within his mind, searching for something he couldn’t begin to grasp.

 _Well, well, well. So you really_ are _still alive. And here I thought that I merely found a ghost of your remains in my daughter’s hand._

He tenses, the icy feeling coasting down his spine momentarily outweighing the pain in his skull. No. No, he recognizes that voice. But - how? He couldnt- He winces, grasping his forehead. Goddammit. Lazy. He got lazy _once_ , left something of his _once_ , and it ruins everything.

"Lucifer." He let's out a shaky breath, carefully pushing himself upright and pulling himself up by the counter. This must be some kind of tracking spell. Higher grade to allow telepathic communication. Or maybe something different. _Gods_ , it hurt to think, to move.

_I’m honestly surprised you’re still alive, and I mean that in the most honest way possible, really. I haven’t seen you in decades and suddenly you go crawling out of the woodwork by taking a bite out of some man’s neck? Quite the hiding act, I must say. But I don’t think you’ll be hiding for long._

A new wave of pain, more blood starting to drip down his face, and Lucifer’s voice chuckles in his head. He clasps a hand to his eye.

_So sorry for the blood, darling. Afraid it’s a side effect of the scrying spell, since this little trinket I’m holding used to be attached to your eye. Hope it washes out of your clothes. But that’s not the important part. The important part is where exactly you are right now._

He feels the pain seize him, feels the probing influence slowly warp and shift, and suddenly he feels his arms slowly, shaking all the while, starting to slowly lower from where it was pressed over his bloody eye.

"S-scrying?" He feels his breathing pick up as he notices his hand peel back away from his face. Blood obscures his vision, but he makes out the counter in front of him, the stove, and in an instant his other hand is grabbing his wrist and pulling it back over his eye. "Shit. _Shit_." Lucifer couldn't locate him, still. Even after all this time, he still had to go old school.

Despite how it sounds, that means nothing good for Alastor.

He stumbles across the room, most of the vision of his left eye obscured by his own arms, by the pain making him swim in a haze. The floor is tilting under him, but he barely stops, huffing and panting. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to help his balance while holding back on showing anything that could give away his location.

 _Heheh. Yes, scrying. What, you didn’t think the_ Devil _wasn’t capable of performing any fancy spells like this, did you?_

Another bolt of pain has him almost collapse, knees close to buckling underneath him. 

_Come on now, Alastor. There won’t be any harm in knowing where you are. Not as long as you play_ nice. _But I think we both know that won’t happen. You clearly don’t intend to, since you’re meddling with Pentious and his men. Really now, out of all the people you could’ve angered, you picked_ him? _How much have you lost your touch, darling?_

"Haa, more like I didn't realize how _desperate_ you'd be." He gasps, barely keeping himself upright as the pain laces through him, stumbling into a wall and momentarily curling against it. He curses again and forces his legs to wobble forward. "As for.. that slimy serpent... stepping stones. Nothing more."

There was a cackling laugh, a chortle, and Lucifer’s voice is thick with amusement. 

_Ohoho! Stepping stones, you say? Really? Oh, that_ bravado!

Another bolt of pain. 

_That determination!_

Another. Blood pours down his wrist.

 _That utter gall to just_ **keep on going!**

He feels himself fall and there’s a crash of what sounds like glass.

_Ohohoh....Ohhh....And to think I thought you were dead all these years. I really should’ve known better._

Alastor gasps, feeling his face hit wood, his lips curling back as he growls, skin already starting to feel numb. The fall is jarring enough that he can't tell if his hand is covering his face anymore, eyes closed and shut tight. He feels himself spasm in pain, feels his nose press against the floor as he tries to ground himself, to pull himself back together. "W-well... You know what they say! _We'll meet again..."_ He'd sing the lines if there weren't so much pain lacing through his face at the moment.

An even louder cackle, practically sounding overjoyed. _Oooh, if I were here, wherever you are, I’d be dipping you into quite the fun dance, darling. You know how fond I am of those. Hehehe..._

The pain lessens ever so slightly, and this time Lucifer doesn’t sound so amused. 

_But I am still curious as to how you’re still alive, Alastor. More importantly, I’m concerned with you_ scaring my daughter. 

His voice dips into a low growl, and the pain sharpens back up within an instant.

As the pain lessens, he almost catches himself sighing in relief. Maybe the fact that Lucifer would even offer to dance is a good sign. Especially given their last exchange with each other. And then the pain comes back, redoubled, no aching to ease him into it, and he clenches his jaw, swearing spittle was flying from between his teeth at the pressure of his cries. His claws dig into the floorboards as he tries to even think of standing back up. "Ghk-" He coughs, swearing the blood dripping down his face had gotten into his mouth somehow. "H-how should I - how should I know - how your... Gggh..." Gods, he could go insane under this. Wouldn't that be an unpleasant sight to see.

The pain dies back down again to a more bearable level, and there’s a soft little sigh from Lucifer, as if it was something that Alastor obviously wasn’t getting. _Oh, darling, you can’t just go around ripping out people’s throats in the city streets when my dear daughter is walking around out there, you should know that. But, I suppose I can forgive you, seeing as it has been a while. Who knows what’s changed with you._ He starts to sound a touch amused again. _Tell me, dear, are you still a fan of jazz? I always adored that about you. Always thought it was so_ cute.

"Of - of course." Even in the midst of this torture, he finds time to feel offended by the idea of _not_ enjoying jazz. "So much variety in it. More songs than ever." He pulls himself upright, covering his eye again as he stumbles and drags himself along the wall toward the medical room, a few feet forward, then a few more. He swallows roughly, legs feeling like jello, but he puts one foot in front of the other, getting closer and closer to that room in the back of the house.

 _Good! Oh, you really haven’t changed a bit, have you?_ There was another chuckle, a bit more sinister. _Don’t tell me you’re going to start causing problems for me, are you? You know that’s a terrible idea, darling. You could get_ hurt.

He feels his cheeks twitch and he leans against the wall for a moment to catch his breath. "I plan on... continuing similarly to the last few decades. Obviously." He trudges forward, making it to a door, and throws the door open, stumbling inside. The room doesn't smell like blood at all. Figures he'd be the first patient.

 _Mmm. I see. So, you’re going to keep on trying to hide, are you? Going to keep on tucking your tail in between your legs and bow your head and hunch your shoulders?_ He almost starts to sound disappointed. _Going to keep on running away?_

"You mean surviving?" Alastor blinks his left eye a few times, bringing his hand to cover his right as he surveys Niffty's medical room. He's going to have to pay her back after this. Thankfully, he hadn't made a deal about not rooting through her supplies. It crosses his mind that perhaps that's a little hypocritical, but another spike in pain has him forgetting the thought and stumbling to the nearest cabinet. "I see you're just as - just as _bouncy_ as ever. Do you want me to not make trouble or do you want me to tear up the streets? I-" He winces again. "I can't quite tell."

 _Ohoho...Oh, come now, Alastor, dear, we both know I’m not the type to_ force _you to do anything. That’s not the point of Hell after all. Sure, I may not_ approve _of anything you want to do, darling, but I think we both know I’m not the type as to be so_ petty.

Another spark of pain, enough to almost make him collapse again, and he feels his claws scraping against the frame of the cabinet door. 

_No, no, my dear. Think of this as a little warning. A quick, stern slap on the wrist before I send you on your way to do whatever you want._

"Hnng-" Alastor feels his shoulders shaking, his breathing labor as his claws sink into the cabinet. He hisses his words out through clenched teeth. "Rest assured... I want _nothing_ to do with you." He forces a deep breath and opens the cabinet, sorting through the bottles and looking for a specific label. "No, no, no. Where is it?" He all but slams the door shut, moving to the next. "Cough syrups. No." Next. Fluid IVs? He doesn't remember either of them buying any.

 _Aww, really?_ There was the sound of Lucifer’s chuckle echoing in his head, his voice dipping into a more teasing tone. _Nothing? And here I was thinking we could go out dancing at the nearest pub!_

There was another pang of pain, followed by Alastor’s arm being seized by whatever magic Lucifer was using, slowly trying to drag itself down so his bloody eye could peer out. _What’s this about cough syrup, darling? Oh, don’t tell me you’re trying to knock yourself out now. Do you really want me gone that badly?_

His arm shakes as he fights Lucifer's magic, the strain making some of his muscle pop against his skin. He grabs for the next cabinet. "It may come as a surprise to you, but most people don't appreciate their mind, much less their body, being invaded by an outside source!" He stares at the bottles in front of him, vaguely recognizing the shape and color, and blinks some of the blood out of his eye. "Diazepam. I was looking for diazepam, actually. Getting high isn't going to do anything for me." He snatches a bottle and sets it on the counter, glancing around to see if any needles had been left outside of the drawers.

There was a loud, loud cackling from Lucifer’s voice, ringing through his head so viscerally that it was enough to make his teeth grit, to make a cold sweat run down his spine, and the amusement is so thick in his tone that one could cut it with a knife. _Oh, I’m sorry, what was that about invading minds and bodies, darling? What was that about invasions against other’s wills?_

There was another spark of pain, one that has Alastor’s whole frame wobble, and he feels his vision pulse, the thick metal tang of blood filling his nose. 

_Don’t think I don’t know all your little secrets, darling. Because I certainly do._

Alastor tries to grab onto the counter as he falls, but only his left arm obeys and it's not enough to keep him standing. He hits the floor with a solid thud, ears ringing, muscles aching, head a fog of who knows what. He coughs and the force has him rolling onto his back. Not once in his life was he a doctor or nurse or medic of any kind, but he knows that's not a good position to be in. Especially not when there are windows in the room. He tries to shut his eyes but his lids just keep flickering. Everything is spinning. He pats weakly at the ground. "F-...Fuck you."

_Is that an offer?_

"If you were corporeal and I could feel my arm, I can assure you my fist would be connecting with your nose space." Alastor grimaces, feeling over the cabinets for the edge of the counter and slowly and carefully pulling himself up to his knees. "You know exactly what I mean."

 _Ohohoho, I’m only teasing, dear, come on now. No need to get_ violent. _I’m glad you’re still alive, really, I am. I wouldn’t say things have gotten_ dull _around here, oh no, but a little more zest never hurt anyone!_

"I have... nothing to say to you, Lucifer." He manages to pull his knees under himself, leaning his forehead against the counter for a short moment. "We went our separate ways. What's done is done."

 _Oh, I absolutely_ agree, _my dear! Do understand that I’m not doing this for the sake of some petty grudge or my own sadistic whimsy, no no! I’m more doing this for the sake of my_ daughter, _Alastor. After all, she’s starting to roam around Hell again, and she’s already getting quite troubled by the idea of a_ cannibal _roaming the streets. Get the picture?_

He rolls his eyes, unsure if Lucifer could see or notice the motion, and pulls himself more upright. He scans the counter for a needle, instead spotting the case Niffty had returned with from the Black Market. He reaches for it, pulling it close, and undoes the latches. "For once I have some good luck." He pulls a needle from the case and grabs the bottle of diazepam. His other arm still isn't cooperating with him. "Apologies if my eating habits concern the Princess, dear. But that sounds a bit more like a _her_ problem than one of my own." He brings the bottle to his mouth, clamps down on the lid, and tugs off the cap. He spits it onto the floor as he sets down the bottle and reaches for the needle again.

There was a moment of cold, icy silence, seconds before a new wave of pain, jagged, deep, and visceral, _skewers_ through his mind like a blade, and he doesn’t even realize he’s screaming until he feels the burning of his own throat, feels the floor collide with his side, his hand jerking away from his face with a brutal force, and in the dim haze, he realizes with dawning horror that his bloody eye is uncovered and wide open.

There's a short moment where he's staring at the window, looking out at the neighboring buildings and the more distant skyline of the Pentagram, and then he curses, turning onto his other side and patting over the counter for the bottle and needle. He nearly knocks over the bottle in the process, some of the sedative spilling over the rim, but he manages to set down the bottle, put the needle inside, and use his teeth to draw out as much as he can manage. He doesn't hesitate in stabbing himself in the neck and pressing down on the injector.

"Shit." He tosses the needle onto the floor and leans his head against the counter. " _Shit_."

There was a long pause, the pain not settling, the agony not ceasing, but soon, Lucifer’s voice speaks up one last time, cold and brimming with malice.

 _Know this, Alastor. Know this well. If I ever find out you even remotely stepped one foot near my daughter with the intent to bring her harm, the eternal torment you will suffer will be the likes of which no mortal has ever seen. You won’t be given the gift of dying twice. You will die over and over, repeatedly, in every way you can possibly imagine, on loop, for as long as Hell remains burning. This is not a threat. It’s a_ guarantee.

Alastor clenches his jaw, pressing a shaky hand against his neck. "I just want my radio station back." He doesn't feel anything immediately, though the pain in his arms dies away to tingles in his finger. He carefully moves to lower himself against the ground as his breathing starts to even itself out. "Like I said, I don't care about you. Or your family."

There was a small, small pause, before the pain slowly began to fade. _Make sure you remember that then._ There was the sound of a heavy sigh, before he spoke up again. _Well, since you’re probably about to pass out, I think I’ll leave you to doing so. Good luck in this new age of Overlords and turf wars, Alastor. You’re going to need it._

He grimaces even as the rest of the pressure eases from his skull, trying to focus on the coldness of the flooring rather than the blood still tracing down his face. The floor wouldn't be anywhere near as comfortable as the bed, but... why waste the sheets? His limbs are getting heavier anyways. Better to stay on the ground. Better to wait. His eyes close and lets the world disappear around him.

•••

Jolting back into his body always felt..somewhat odd. Familiar, comfortable, soothing even, but always odd, much in the same way it felt to step out from the shower and go from naked to clothed again, except he was more or less stitching his own skin back to his conscious mind. He couldn’t really _see_ when he was out of his body, out of his software, absorbed entirely into the network of grids and power outlets, into little more than sheet electrical wires, which, to be frank, was expected. He had no eyes to see, no mouth to speak, no ears to hear, just nothing more than a collective stream of electricity, of data, of broadcasts, flicking through the air and through the wires, filtering through his mind much like water would filter through a collection of rocks. While he was in the grid, the only way he could see anything was if he peeked through another visual vessel, another television screen, and even then, it was the equivalent of a peephole, of cracking one eye open and catching a glimpse of what was going on through the other side. Things only felt whole when he was back into his body, and even then, there would always be a part of him that felt going from little more than a formless field of energy to a full on consciousness in a suit of machinery was...odd. There was no other way to put it.

The actual uploading back into his system was seamless, taking more little than a few seconds, but it still served as a way to make Vox’s whole consciousness jolt as everything snapped and folded back into the proper places, and as his eyes snapped open, it took a few seconds for him to process that he was back in his own body. His talons curled when he told them to, his chest inhaled and exhaled, his heart pounded in his frame, able to feel it in his skin, and that’s when he let himself relax a touch, feeling that everything was accounted for. He slowly glances upwards from his lap, only to blink, not quite expecting what he was seeing. “...How long have you been sitting there?”

Valentino jolts, almost falling out of a chair much too small for him, and turns to face him, a clipboard and pen in his hands. An old cup of coffee sits on the floor next to him, beside his unlaced high heel boots. He brings a hand to his chest as he relaxes. “Jesus, Vox. Maybe some warning next time?” He takes a deep breath, small, muffled clicking coming from him as his feet shift on the floor of the room. “It’s been a few hours. I thought I’d take the time to look into a few things while you were out. Camera feeds, triangulation, movements with some of the smaller mobs.” He looks him over, some of the worry from before falling across his face again. “You alright? No, uh, residual anything?”

Vox blinks a touch, taking a moment to process the inquiry, before simply shaking his head, feeling a soft flare of heat crackle over his screen for a moment. “Uh, no. No, I’m fine. I’m good...Uh..Are _you_ ok?”

Val raises a brow slightly, though he seems to relax a touch at the answer. “Just peachy. A little tired, honestly. Everyone in the City is freaking out over this shit. Well, not everyone, but enough people, I guess. They’re talking nuclear, in case you didn’t hear it.” One of his hands fidgets, like he’s about to dive into one of his pockets for a cigar or cigarette, but he lets his hand pull back and drop to his side instead. “Did you figure anything out about where the blast was headed? Anything on who sent it?”

“I...” He has to take a second to run a hand over his face, trying to compute and comprehend all of the data that had flashed through the whole of his being, to try to rationalize it and put it into words, images. “..It...I know where it landed, and...what that could mean..But...” As the information starts to settle, he feels a slight chill run down his spine, and he has to clench his fists once, twice. “..You ain’t gonna like it.”

“I’ve been through a lot of shit I don’t like, Vox.” He grins at him, turning around fully, straddling the chair he’s sitting in, to face him. “I think I can handle this.”

“Well...First off, it landed all the way over in fucking _Europe_ , or whatever they call it over there, so, whatever the fuck it is, it can travel _huge_ distances without losing steam, so...there’s that.” He crosses his arms, feeling his heart start to pound a little more, eyes drifting down to his knees. “It’s not nuclear, whatever it is. Nuclear is a whole other level of destruction. Vaporizes everything around it into little more than ashes and _melts_ anything that hasn’t already been turned into ashes, and that’s only if you’re close enough to the damn thing if it goes off. This is...It was aimed toward a singular building, a power plant. Fuck, not _even_ the plant, it was aimed toward a _coup_ that was trying to _take over_ the plant, and the explosion it made, while fucking _huge_ , didn’t even as so much as leave a god damn _scratch_ on the plant at all.” He glances up towards Val at that, leaning forward. “This wasn’t a god damn nuke, Val, this was _a sniper’s bullet_.”

The cocky grin on his face slowly fades at he talks, a frown furrowing his brows. His antenna bristles a little and he straightens at the description of the power plant, of the precision of such an attack. “So... someone has a mega gun that... can hit other whole entire _fucking_ countries... and they fired that gun in the last twenty four hours?” He blinks a bit, shaking his head as he tries to wrap his head around it. “And on top of that, there’s a shit ton of magic involved. Lucifer hasn’t said a goddamn word yet.”

“All I know is, it hit near some damn power plant, and I have no fucking idea _how_ or _why_.” He lets a hand run over his screen with a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t even figure out the grid of the damn power plant to begin with. It’s nowhere near ours and I couldn’t even begin to reach any of it even if I tried. Everything is all based on wires, I can’t reach it otherwise. The only way I found out where it landed at all was by hooking up to some broadcast made by the TV’s over in the other country.”

“Hey, hey, that’s still pretty good.” Val stands, walking over to him and bringing two hands to his shoulders. “Nobody’s been able to figure this shit out yet. No one here is even mentioning a power plant.” He looks him over again, then glances at the cords attached to his back. “How about we get you out of these, yeah? Get you some fresh air or something.”

“..I...” He turns his head in a vain effort to glance back toward the cables, but then sighs when he realizes that he can’t see them, nodding as he turns his head back. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right..Can you undo them for me? Same steps to make them go in. Twist, and then pull them out.”

“Yeah, sure. Hold this?” He hands him the clipboard he had been holding and carefully moves to grab the first cable, following his instructions. There’s a dozen sketches of a birds eye view of the city, jagged lines crossing through each. One has a dozen checkmarks and an arrow pointing to a bunch of triangles and question marks. “Don’t mind the scribbles. I’m a terrible artist.”

“Heh...What the fuck is this even supposed to be? Are you trying to draw the goddamn power grid of the Pentagram?” He shudders as he feels the cables slowly getting unhooked, one by one, his shoulders losing their tension, his antenna no longer crackling.

“Close enough. Geography. I was trying to get the trajectory of the shot. Shit came from far outside the Pentagram, definitely toward the mountain ranges. Thought I could figure out if it was closer to the city or not, but...” He pulls the last cable and shrugs. “No telling. My guess is that we were too close to get an accurate read on its distance. The thing was just too damn big and too damn fast.”

“..Yeah...” He hesitates for a moment, even as he slowly moves to stand, taking a moment to stretch his arms over his head, his antenna crackling to release some of the excess energy. After a moment, he finally turns back to face Val, a frown on his face. “I hate to be the guy to start spit-balling, but..You don’t think it was Pentious, do you? Last time I checked, he had fucking tech that was able to shoot lasers, didn’t he?”

“Ah...” He exhales and rubs the back of his head, lower arms crossing. “I wouldn’t be surprised. He’d be my first choice if I had to point at someone. Lasers are his gig, he’s ridiculously closed off about how he makes the tech, and all his weapons either break or explode before someone can actually dissect them. Could be a competitor, but he kills most of them. They’d had to have hidden quite a bit to pull something like this off.” He goes quiet for a moment, thinking hands going still on the back of his head. “What if... what if it _wasn’t_ a weapon at all? I’ve got proof that the guy can shoot lasers out of his fingers without breaking a sweat. You don’t think he could actually... just...” He holds a hand up like a gun and mimics taking a shot. “It can’t be that simple.”

Something about the sheer possibility is enough to make Vox’s frame tremble, and he can’t help but let a hand drag over his screen, fingers posing like he’s holding his chin. “I...I really fucking hope it’s not that simple. Because if it _is,_ then...I don’t even fucking know.”

Val closes his eyes, running his hand over his head and pulling his hat away for a moment. “Guh. Probably just the coffee talking. Never seen anything that big come out of him, and I’ve seen him in action for decades.” He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again. “You wanna come back to the mansion or rest up here? It’s almost the middle of the day, but, damn, I feel like sleeping. Shit’s crazy.”

Vox can’t help but feel his cheeks tingle with heat again the moment he hears Val say those words, and he almost doesn’t hear the rest. He opened his mouth, pausing for a moment before simply sighing and nodding his head after a moment. “Yeah, yeah, might as well go back with you. Watch your back in case any shit goes down.” He moves to pick up his undershirt and starting to button it back on again.

“Yeah, sure...” He doesn’t seem to have quite heard him properly because a moment later he gives him a second take. “Watch my back?” He smirks a little at him. “Yeah, I suppose that makes sense.” He reaches toward his pocket again for a cigar. “Hm. I need a smoke. You ready to head up?”

“I’m certainly not gonna turn tail and _run_ if whatever shot that laser heads toward us, now aren’t I?” He can’t help but flash a grin at that, moving to also tug on his coat, taking a moment to adjust his bow tie. “That would just be shitty of me.”

“Hey, sometimes running is a good option.” He shrugs lightly, pulling a cigar out but not lighting it. “I’ll be honest, if that laser turned on us? I’d rather you not be in the same place as me. Better for one of us to live than both of us die.” It’s unusual to hear something like that come from Valentino. He doesn’t even look him in the eyes either.

Those words get Vox to pause for a moment, staring at the way his eyes seem to firmly stare at the floor, at the sound of his voice, the concern beneath it, the fear of it all. It’s enough to make Vox’s hands clench at his sides, before he slowly walks over, reaching out to softly put a hand on Val’s back. “..I ain’t gonna leave you, you doofus. Especially not if your old ass has to go and fight some whack job with a giant vaporizing explosive ray or some shit like that.” He tries for a smile. “Probably snap your spine the moment you take a step or something.”

“Hey, I’m not that old.” He smirks lopsidedly at him, finally making eye contact, and slips an arm around his shoulders, starting to walk toward the elevator. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to have you with me in a fight either. I’ve seen you training here and there. You’re getting pretty good.”

“Heheh. Hey, can’t make a fucking fool of myself out there, can I?” He feels a part of himself relax at the sight of his smile, and he lets his claws of his free hand lift up to give off a soft crackle. “Especially when I got this piece of shit for a head.” He lifts a hand to knock against his frame.

“Hey, I like that piece of shit. Stop trash talking it.” He chuckles, bringing the cigar to his lips, just holding it there. “Humanoids are overrated anyways. Tech is the future.”

“Hmm.” For some reason Val’s words don’t bring about the sense of panic like it did before, only enough to really make his heart shudder in his chest, and he has to keep himself from laughing as they climb into the elevator. “With the way Hell is going, it may very well be.”

Val laughs a bit more. "Well, damn, I may have to factor that into my planning. Good thing I've got a first hand account right here." He smirks at him, his usual confidence filling him, and he snips the end of the cigar and lights it as the doors close. He takes a deep breath of the smoke and lets it ease out on the exhale, a wisp of purple that comes with the scent of berries. "Ah... Shoulda done that earlier."

“You ok? He tilts his head to glance at him, noting how there was a soft tremor to his hands. “You’re a bit, uh...shaky.”

He grins softly at him, taking another draw and blowing the smoke off to the side. “Nicotine habit. Couldn’t smoke in there, and I never left. Like I said, shoulda done this earlier.” He waves the cigar gently.

“Damn. Some habit.” He moves to glance Val’s frame over, and after a moment, let’s his hand slide over to grip his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Don’t go inhaling so much of the stuff you fuck up your lungs, kay?”

“Aw, worried about dear ol’ Val?” He chuckles, his hands starting to shake less. “Don’t be. I know exactly how many of these I can take before I outpace my own regeneration.”

“Mhm. Sure.” He sighs a bit but let’s it go regardless. “I’ll forgive you this once. Been a long day.”

“I’ll try just the one, how about that? Probably just need something to curb me for the moment anyways.” The elevator doors open up on the first floor and Val gestures for him to take the lead. “After you.”

•••

There are many things Lucifer would rather be doing than strolling down an unfamiliar mansion far removed from the general populace of Pentagram City, but he finds himself with little to no choice on the matter. Everything his sources had brought him, everything his own intuition told him is bringing him to this exact home on the outskirts of the city. Technically, it could be considered outside the city, possibly even a suburb. A rather rich and lonely suburb. The isolation of this one house reminds him of pastoral tales of nature borne homes on Earth, minus the sheep and cattle, of course. The inside is luxurious, finely kept, and dark, for the most part. Wooden floorboards, intricate wallpapers with serpentine decorations, wall lamps held up by metal snake heads. Every now and then there’s a painting or small collection of photographs, typically nothing of note but occasionally something of monetary value; likely stolen, if he were to guess, and probably right off the artist’s easel.

The wing he’s in is quiet, full of doors leading to bedrooms or workrooms or storage areas. His heels click against the floor while he hums, hands tucked behind his back as he makes his way toward the middle of the house. If he’s to judge from the windows, he’d guess he’s on the second floor of the estate. He hasn’t come across any stairs yet. 

It wasn’t long before he reached his destination, a singular wooden door along the end of a hallway that splits into both left and right, made out of finely carved oak, the knob looking to be a golden caricature of the Earth with a snake wrapped around it’s equator. He couldn’t help but smirk to himself ever so slightly at how adorable such an illustration was, before properly lifting a hand to knock against the door. Before he can even say so much as a word, there was a disgruntled hiss from the other end of the door, followed by an ominous rattle, then the voice of the man he was looking for. “What is it now? I ssswear if any one of you touched the furnace again, I’ll throw you into a tank of boiling acid! Don’t think I won’t!”

Lucifer can't help but chuckle, raising a hand to cover his mouth at the sound. This man really hasn't changed much, has he? He brings his hands back behind him, letting a small silence settle to prove to Sir Pentious that this wasn't one of his little eggs looking to update him on their most recent accident. His grin curls. "Now, is that any way to address your king?"

There was a long, lengthy pause, which was understandable. There was shuffling of papers, the opening and closing of drawers, a bit more suspicious but also equally understandable. Finally, there was the sound of the door being jostled, before it creaked open, and Lucifer causally tilted his head upwards to look Sir Pentious in the face, his hair regally brushed downwards into one seamless wave, his expression looking guarded, almost wary, tongue flickering out in that adorable way that most snakes did. “..Lucifer...I don’t think I wasss expecting you anytime soon. What brings you here to my home?”

"Just a routine house call, given recent events. I doubt you have any reason to worry." He flashes a wide smile, though he leaves a thin layer of danger in his eyes, and tries to peek around him into the room. "Your office, I take it? There wouldn't happen to be an extra chair, would there? The conversation we're about to have may take a while."

“..Right.” His tail seems to flick a touch, and he glances back into his room, before moving to slither to the side to allow him to pass by. “I have an extra chair for guesssts, yes. Please, come in.”

Lucifer hurries into the room, looking around eagerly at the more lived in, more well lit space. There's the desk, as he expected, lamps on the walls, a few containers full of rolled and tied blueprints, an impressive bookshelf with at least a dozen unmarked journals, a coat rack, a hat rack, a lukewarm cup of tea on top of a small porcelain dish. The room is taller than he had expected, most likely to fully showcase the focal point of the room: a tall, golden framed painting of Pentious as a human, smirking with malicious and sadistic intent, poised as the background burns. The strokes are expertly made, the colors simultaneously bursting off the page while remaining devoid of life. There's almost a hint of fire in those coal-like eyes. A tag on the base of the painting reads: _Wanted (1878), Adeline Brooks._

Lucifer glances back at Pentious. "Your sister's work? Is it authentic?"

Pentious moves to close the door, scales shifting and swaying as he moves to slither back around to his desk, coiling up properly, to the point where the two of them are more or less eye level, hands folded on top of the desk. He glances over at the painting, tongue flickering out once more, tail giving a soft flick. “As authentic as can be. I’m honesssstly quite grateful it was never burnt down or stolen. At leassst not before I got to it.”

“I can imagine. Something as beautiful as that doesn’t deserve to be burned, after all.” He waves a hand and a chair that had been set aside for guests slides over to him. He takes a seat and shifts closer to the desk, taking a quick look over the surface for any indication of what he had so swiftly hidden. “I imagine you know why I’m here, Pentious?”

“..Not exactly, no. You did drop by unannounced, so pardon me if I’m not precissssely aware of what you wish to discuss.” His tail flicks again, as does his tongue, his tone kept low, quiet, his face pulled into an expertly blank, guarded expression. There was nothing on his desk that appeared to be anything suspicious; a calendar with the days crossed off, the aforementioned cup of tea, a collection of pens, a cute little office toy that appeared to be what looked to be an hourglass that was rigged to always keep spinning right back up whenever the sand ran out in the top.

Lucifer shifts to cross his legs - _crisscross applesauce_ \- and leans forward to tap at the hour glass toy. “Maybe you were out of town at the time, but a weapon was fired over Pentagram City. Well over even the tallest building, so no damage done, but it’s spooked most of the citizens. All but caused a panic. A few riots here and there. Plenty of people have fled to Angel Shelters and have refused to come out.” He turns his gaze on Pentious. “I’m dealing with an entire city convinced it’s the 1940s all over again. So I have a few questions to ask you.”

The tips of his hood flicker for just a moment, quivering before falling still, and Pentious’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “...I have heard the reportssss and broadcasts, yes. Please, ask away.”

His grin widens and for a moment he says nothing, then he leans back, moving his hands to grip his ankles. “I won’t even bother asking you if you had anything to do with it, because I know the truth and I know what you’ll say. I don’t even care that you’ve caused an international incident with your... garish display of force.” He grins the entire time, simultaneously relaxed and strained, but most of all _amused._ “If I wanted to, I could kill you right now. But I don’t want to. That would ruin the game we’re all playing. So all I ask of you is to tell me what was used to create that bullet, how it was made, and proof I can use to calm my city. I just need _something_ to prove that the blast wasn’t any form of nuclear weaponry.”

For a moment, Pentious doesn’t move, eyes narrowed, arms politely folded against his desk, only for a soft grin to grow over his face, exposing his teeth, and his tail notably gives a soft, almost dismissive flick, a hand lifting up to press to his chest. _“Nuclear_ energy? Assss if I’d even _dare_ go near that dissssaster of an energy source. No, no, I assure you, the type of power that I use to create my weaponssss are far more effective, with far lessss potential to result in an active _meltdown._ If you wish, I’d be glad to show you.”

“That would be preferred, yes.” He seems to relax, taking the tacit admission as a reason to set aside murderous intent. “For the record, I don’t believe you would use nuclear energy. I don’t even believe that the weapon was nuclear. But not everyone has the kind of insight that I have.”

“Ohoho...I will admit, I may have had a bit of a hearty chuckle about the whole thing. How could I not? The entire city practically throwing a fit and thinking that it’s Armageddon? Hah!” His hood rattles this time as he moves to uncoil himself, visibly opening up enough to display the eyes within, moving to slither toward the door.

Lucifer stands and follows him toward the door. “I can imagine rather well. I’ve done it to humans quite a few times.” He chuckles. “The reaction is much the same here in Hell. I would have thought there’d be more explosions, though.” He moves to walk beside him. “I picked up quite a bit of magic from the blast. Woke me up better than a cup of coffee.” 

“Really now?” He moves to open the door, starting to turn to his right, the hallways just as silent as ever. “Well, I’d asssume you already know the answer to your question about the blassst, then.” A grin curls over his cheeks, and his hood gives another soft rattle. “I consssider this new energy source one of my finessst inventions.”

“I’ll admit that I thought you gave up that side of experimentation after your work on the power grid. You seemed to take it almost like a failure at the time. I suppose I was rather harsh in my reaction, however.” He looks around at the walls, taking in the occasional painting but really thinking back a few decades, recalling the swaths of illness that cropped up throughout the city. “You’ll be glad to know that there haven’t been any adverse reactions throughout the Pentagram. Not even a single person hospitalized with symptoms.”

“Perfect. It would be no good to have sssome sort of awful plague start cropping up every time I happened to fire a gun from my ship, now wouldn’t it?” He lifts a claw in the air and and it briefly crackles with a charge of energy, the smallest bead of light starting to well up against the tip. “Though, I suppose I could always make do with _thisss_ as well.” The crackle fades and he lowers his hand, no doubt grinning like a maniac, teeth bared to glint in the light.

Lucifer lets out an even chuckle, skipping a little just to have something to do aside from walking. “It’s formidable, I’ll admit, having lasers at your fingertips.” He looks up at him, at the glint of fangs in the dimness of the hallway, the way his eyes glow faintly. “How do you do it, then? How did you figure out how to synthesize energy more properly?”

“You’ll sssee, don’t worry. We just have to take a trip down to the basement.” They arrive at another end of the hall, coming across what look to be an elevator shaft, a lever sticking out of the wall right next to the closed doors, and Pentious moves to wrench the lever downwards, causing the doors to open. His tail flicks softly toward the elevator in question. “Please, after you.”

“Why, thank you.” He grins and walks inside, finding the make and model just as immaculate as ever. “Everything in this house is your design, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Pentious moves to slither in after him, coiling up to make proper room. There was an array of buttons and Pentious moves to press the one depicting a symbol of a snake on it, to which the doors slid shut and the elevator began to make its descent. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been meaning to install a more modern elevator in my palace, but I can’t seem to find a proper builder.” He glances at the array of buttons for a moment before returning to looking around the cabin. “I wouldn’t ask you to take your own time to do the task, but I’ll certainly have to look into some of your catalogs, see if there’s one I can order.”

“Hmm.” His grin seems to widen at that, grow a touch more smug, and he nods a touch. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind for the future.” There was a soft, momentary silence. “How has your daughter been? I undersssstand she’s been walking about the city again.”

“Oh, she’s been perfectly fine!” Lucifer beams up at him. “There’s been a few hiccups, but that’s to be expected. I hear she ran into you and Nora at the library. How is Nora these days?”

“She’s doing quite well as a matter of fact. Been quite busy these days, but that’s practically the opposite of a problem for her. Heheh.” He chuckles a touch. “Been making quite the stridessss in her research lately.”

“Is that so? Oh, that’s good to hear. I haven’t seen her in decades.” He smirks, trying to sort out the timeline. “Yeah, I think the last time I saw her was while you two were working together. I imagine you’re still working together?”

“Of coursssse. Why would we ever stop?” His tail flickers a touch, his grin becoming both smug and fond. “Practically my mosssst trusted ally at this point.”

“Fair point.” He chuckles. “I suppose there’s no dying for the both of you. Not anytime soon, anyways.” He turns toward him after a moment. “Charlie mentioned that someone murdered one of your men recently.”

His grin falls momentarily, a look of mild shock, before it turns into a soft grimace, a glare, and he nods softly. “Indeed. A soldier of mine, found with his throat torn out. Medical expertsss confirmed that it was ripped open by someone’s teeth. Your daughter helped me possssibly confirm the identity of the man who did it, but so far...I haven’t had a trace since.”

“Makes sense, with what I know.” He nods a little and looks back at the elevator doors. “He’s dangerous. Eats other demons for the fun of it. Your soldier wasn’t alone in being a victim of his.”

“Do you...know, of this man?” Pentious raises a brow ever so slightly, blinking, looking a touch shocked.

“I make it my business to know the names of serial killers that enter Hell, yes. I know of Adam Walker, who currently goes by the name of Alastor.” He goes quiet for a moment, then reaches a hand inside his coat and pulls something out of a pocket. He holds it out toward Pentious, revealing a monocle, snapped on one end and string tied to prevent losing more beads. The glass itself has only the smallest of scratches. “This belonged to him. I’ve used it for my own purposes, but I think you could do more with it.”

Pentious stares at the monocle for the longest moment, his eyes wide and his hood slowly raising up, before he moves to take it, slowly sliding his thumb against the glass. “Where did you find thisss? I don’t recall ever hearing anything about him wearing a monocle.”

“I can assure you, he did.” Lucifer watches as he takes the monocle. “As for where I found it? Charlie gave it to me, who was given it by someone else, who seemingly found it dropped on some floor out there on the Pentagram. Seems like he didn’t clean up very well.”

There’s a small, odd, staticky feeling that meets Pentious’s hand as he holds it, a soft buzzing that seems to fluctuate in seemingly random intervals.

“If you want my advice, Sir Pentious?” Lucifer gives him a slightly more serious look. “You don’t want to get involved with a serial killer. The man of yours that Alastor killed? Likely incidental, not targeted. But if you start hunting him, he’ll start hunting you. And then you’ll have deaths that _are_ targeted.”

“...Hmmm..” He slowly narrows his eyes toward the monocle, his hood rattling, as if deep in thought, before he moves to tuck it into the interior of his coat. “I’ll conssssider your advice, Lucifer. But I believe I’ll be fine. What’ssss one killer to a _conqueror_ such as mysssself?”

“Even a killer who would put you on a platter?” He chuckles. “You’re a strange one, Sir Pentious. Not bothered by cannibalism. Have you ever tried it yourself? The human kind, not the demonic.”

“Can’t ssssay that I have, no. Persssonally don’t have much of an interest in it myself, but I see no reason to ssscorn the ones who do. After all, what one chooses to do with a corpsssse is none of my business, so long as the person they used to be winds up _dead.”_ His eyes narrow, a grin moving onto his face again, chuckling softly as the elevator doors finally start to open.

Lucifer follows Pentious as the basement reveals itself, well furnished with dark wood flooring, carpets, a rack of wine bottles. An entire wall is filled with computer screens, some flickering with lines detailing power outputs and data downloading. The sound of a generator hums in a distant room, though there aren’t any readily visible doors. Lucifer takes it all in, grinning more at the sight.

“You’re starting to make me jealous, Sir Pentious.” He laughs softly. “We should trade notes on building design.”

“Perksss of building the whole house is that you get to decide how it’s built right from the start.” He chuckles softly, slithering near the computers, letting his eyes scan over the screen, before he seems to coil himself back up, lowering his hands to the keys. “Alright now, let’ssss see here.” Within a few seconds, the largest of the screen has cut away to show off what looks to be a recorded feed of a building, with towering columns that appear to be not as ventilation, but as connection rods, where dozens upon dozens of large wires were collected, the wires branching off around the area, while the ground in front of the building looks to be surrounded with gunfire. With what little can be seen from above, it looked as if the fighting was fierce, with unmoving bodies and explosions going off at random intervals, but just as one of the walls of the plant starts to collapse, a large beam of bright pink light barrels downwards, and within an instant, a plume of smoke and fire erupts from where it was struck, leaving behind nothing but a small, compact crater when the dust settles, stained with soot. Pentious moves to glance back toward Lucifer, smirking. “Tell me, Lucifer, doessss that look like a nuclear warhead to you?”

He walks up beside him, eyes trained on the video footage, bouncing around to take in every pixel of information. “It looks like a laser to me. Warped metal, burns, short lived. No shockwaves, no clouding. And too small of a radius.” He eyes the crater that stays on screen as the video is paused. “This is undoctored?”

“Completely untouched footage.” His tail flicks a touch, his hood slowly puffing up a touch, not fully spread but no longer completely flat. “That building is one of my power plantssss, you see. And the group that was sssstruck was a rogue’s gallery of sinners attempting to lay siege to it.”

“You could target such a small area so specifically?” Lucifer looks at him curiously. “You must have had them pinned in that area.”

“Heheh...The corralling and ssssniping method. Always works wonders, does it not?” He moves to type into the keyboard once more, and the screen changes, to show off a large map, looking to display a large array of connected lines mapped through a vast grid. “And thisss is my mosssst up to date map on the electrical grid work throughout the City.”

Lucifer leans closer, examining the lines. He can see clusters near where the City’s power plants are, some in areas where there aren’t power plants, and almost too many to count in the south, where all the casinos and a large majority of businesses reside. “Huh. This appears up to date, certainly....” He glances at Pentious. “I’d like a copy of the video, by the way. It will do wonders to sway the conversation away from nuclear warheads.”

“Certainly.” His tail flicks a touch, and he can’t help but move to tap in a few more key strokes, and soon, the screen changes again to show off a similar map, except there’s almost nothing within the map at all. “Thisss should be the amount of radiation levelsss within the City, over the last 24 hours.”

He eyes the map, then slowly gives Pentious a heaping amount of side eye. “You keep track of radiation levels within the Pentagram?”

Pentious gives him a bit of a side eye as well. “When you’re the mosssst technologically advanced Overlord in the City, you learn to keep an eye out for the ambitiousssss whelps that decide to try to build their own nukessss in their basssements.”

Lucifer’s brows shoot up for a moment as he starts nodding, looking back at the map. “Fair enough, fair enough. Good to know I’m not the only person habitually looking for such things.”

“Ressst assured, if my weaponsss starting giving off radiation, I would inform you right away; I’d be quite concerned about the sssstability in the magic of Hell if that started to happen.” A smug look enters his eye, and he lets out a touch of a chuckle, his tail giving a soft flick.

“Oh, please, as if that would happen.” He chuckles, taking a small step from the computer screens. “I’d appreciate a print or transfer of the maps. Poster sized, if you can do that as well.” He rubs his chin, tapping thoughtfully. “So what exactly are you doing to create such a weapon? What magic are you using?”

“Heh..The ssssame magic that I’m using right now to keep the lights on, of course.” The main screen flickers out for a moment before it zips back on, showing off what almost looks to be a feed of some crackling ball in the center of some metallic dome. It looked spherical, though not smooth, and it slowly spins in place, suspended in the air by a shifting beam of what looks to be bright white energy, coming out from both ends.

“Oh.” Lucifer’s voice is softer, curious, and he leans toward the screens again without taking a step forward. “Well, isn’t that intriguing....” He glances at Pentious. “What am I looking at?”

“Magic.” His grin grows so large that it looks ready to tear open his own cheeks. “Raw magic, processed and transformed into crystals.”

 _“No.”_ A giddy tone takes over his voice and he all but presses his face to the screen. “Oh, you! You - marvelous man! I never thought I’d see the day.” He makes a small squealing noise in excitement. “How did you figure it out? And how much energy can you retrieve? Wait, wait. How many things did you blow up before figuring it all out? And this is powering the building? What about your factories, and your airships?”

There’s an audible _snap_ as Pentious’s hood flares out completely, his eyes momentarily going wide from the sight of Lucifer all but bouncing up and down in excitement, before his hands smugly lift up to adjust his bow tie, smirking all the while. “For the record, only _one_ explosion occurred before I perfected the processss. It’s practically what powers everything within my grasssp. My house, my factoriesss, my ships, everything.”

“And I haven’t even _noticed!?_ Guh!” He rolls his eyes at himself. “Lilith is right. I need to get out more, and work doesn’t count.” He seems to realize he’s plastered against the screen and peels himself away, clearing his throat and smoothing his clothes down. “Congratulations on the find, Sir Pentious. Do you think you’ll ever commercialize it? Or are you keeping it private until the foreseeable future?”

“Commercialize _this?!_ Hah!” He shakes his head almost vehemently, still smugly smirking. “No, no, no! If anything I’ll be holding onto thisss proverbial goldmine for as long as I can.”

“I can’t blame you. That’s... phew, if you can manage an attack like you just did with something like _that?”_ He shakes his head, laughing. “I wouldn’t even dream of giving it away, if I were you.”

“How long _have_ you been waiting for someone to dissscover something like this?” He raises a brow, looking amused to say the least. “I didn’t know you were so, er...passionate, shall we say.”

“Hmm.....” He cups his own jaw, thinking. “I remember _vaguely_ thinking about it sometime in the B.C.s.... I wouldn’t say I _specifically_ thought of this happening, but more... How should I say it? Understanding? I wouldn’t use the word knowledge. But to get to this means...” He shrugs, looking at the video with a look of pride on his face. “I don’t know how to explain it. But you can’t do this by accident. It’s exploration!” He snaps his fingers and slams a fist into his palm. “You’re figuring things out, and I like to see that. Especially when it’s so complex.”

“Heh. Exploration, you say? An interesssting way to put it, to be sure.” He chuckles softly, tail flicking. “Have I done enough to persuade you that I’m not using nuclear energy?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly. I’ll keep quiet on the magic crystal front.” He giggles a bit, still giddy. “The, uh, the video and the maps should suffice as evidence, if you can send them to my address. You have my address still?”

“Oh, of course. I’ll be sure to send them in about..” He seems to pause for a moment. “A day or two, tops.”

“Ah.” He seems to sober a little at that. “Well, I suppose a day isn’t all too bad. I’ll simply have to put a statement out and...” Maybe if he told the public he’d be having a press conference to discuss the matter, and that he was still collecting information... Yes, that could work to calm people. Putting a date on things kept people thinking forward rather than backwards, after all.

“...And?” Pentious was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing.” He gives him a grin. “Merely thinking out loud. It’s been a long day. I get a little...” He waves his hands. “... _blegh_ when planning.”

“I see..” There was a slight pause, and Pentious can’t help but clear his throat a touch. “Is that all you wished to disssscuss with me?”

He thinks for a moment, counting on his finger. Veiled threat, information, nuclear weaponry, monocle, evidence. "Yes, I believe that's it."

“Good. Glad we got that sssettled.” He extends a hand, bending down a little bit so they were more at eye level. “Always a pleasure to disssscuss business with you.”

“Of course, Sir Pentious.” He grins widely, taking his hand. “Be on the lookout for a custom ordered elevator.” He shakes his hand, and as Pentious blinks, vanishes as if he had never even been there.

Pentious takes a moment to stare at the empty space where his hand was still extended, before he lets himself chuckle ever so softly. He moves to open the interior of his jacket, pulling out that monocle once more, holding it up to the light to admire it. It was quite the beautiful piece, rustic, yet charming, and as his thumb slid over the glass, he could feel the thin veil of static spark against his thumb. “Heheh...Time to sssee if my theory bears fruit.”

The room _does_ in fact have a hidden door. Well, two hidden doors. One is a fake wall, a more obvious exit, while the other is behind the shelves of wine. He slithers toward the wine, perusing the selection before grabbing a bottle of white wine, shifting it to the side to expose an eye blended into the wall. A thin, weak laser emits from it, and blinks twice upon noticing no obstacles in front of it. The wall pops forward, a few of the glasses shuddering in their space, and slides to the side for him. He inspects the bottles again, then moves into the cavern he had exposed.

He idly rubs his thumb against the monocle as he moves to slither into the room that he had opened up, his other arm moving to flip the switch along the side of the wall, the lights above flickering on to display a mass of various scientific equipment, the most obvious being the more chemical collections of beakers, bottles, tweezers, torches, and the like, lining the tops of three elegant metal tables pressed end to end. Just beyond the tables was a large glass tank, filled to the brim with a swirling iridescent liquid, shifting and spiraling into all kinds of different colors, two different pipe-like tubes connected to the interior of the tank, the other ends fastened to two currently empty chemical condensers, the nozzles on the pipes currently turned shut, ensuring the mixture within the tank wouldn’t leak out.There were also a vast collection of textbooks and tomes that are tucked away within at least four shelves on the other side of the room, labeled and ordered properly from the least out of date to the most, a collection that Pentious himself ignores, moving to slither closer to the collection of chemical beakers, smirking to himself at the sight of that monocle glinting in the light. “What to sssstart with..?”

There's plenty he can work with. Liquid chemicals, powder chemicals, water, fire. He could even try and crush the thing if he wanted, but he doubted that would get the response he wants. Besides, he'd rather keep the item intact rather than break it to pieces. If nothing else works, then maybe he'll try breaking it. Maybe.

He glances over the Bunsen burners, smirking to himself, and reaches for a pair of goggles. Best to be prepared, in case things went sideways. And they often did when testing unknown substances. He puts on a pair of gloves as well, then turns on one of the burners, adjusting until he gets a proper blue flame. Then he grabs the tongs. Slowly, he moves to grip the monocle by the little scrap of a beaded chain it has left, leaving the lens and the rim of said lens completely intact, and he lets a grin grow onto his face, beginning to lower the monocle toward the flames. The tongues of blue fire lick over the contours of the glass, almost harmlessly at first, before the flickering shapes slowly converge and begin to properly start scorching the glass, not cracking it, not warping it, but slowly starting to turn the surface black. The scent of burning paint and metal starts to slowly fill his nostrils, and his eyes narrow behind his goggles, waiting for something, _anything_ to happen.

For a short moment, there's nothing. The monocle burns, burnt oxygen gathering against the glass and the rose gold metal starting to show from beneath the thin coat of paint. The fire flickers against it, some wisps reaching up to the beads and start to discolor the accessory there. Then the fire, briefly, flickers _green,_ for just a second, before shuddering back to blue.

A faint, haunting screech, distant, almost as if it were coming from another room, echoes in Pentious's head. It grows louder the longer he holds the monocle to the flame, ghastly, wheezing, inhuman noises. Pained, almost. The fire flickers green again.

Pentious feels his breath catch in his chest, feels that screech echoing, rumbling through his head, his _bones,_ and all at once he feels the urge to howl with laughter bubble up within his chest, his grin splitting across his face, even as he pulls the monocle away from the flames, holding up the soot-stained piece of eyewear for him to see, shoulders shaking as he lets out an eager chortle, the beginnings of a true laugh. _“Heheheheheh!_ Ohhhh, what a ssstring of _fortuitoussss_ events!”

He'd had his suspicions. The profile fit. The job fit. The willingness to kill fit. But this is confirmation. This is progress. He sets the monocle on a tray to cool off as he continues laughing, giddy, eager to race off and make an entry about his successes, about his plans. Oh, he could see it. He could see exactly what is to come, exactly how he will-

_hhheeugGGGEAAHH!_

The wailing screams crescendo in his skull, the monocle seeming to spark again, twitching on the tray he had left it on.

This time, it’s enough to have Pentious wince, to have his hands clamp to the sides of his head, feeling his hood snap open as the almost _painful_ screech echoes through his mind, and he can’t help but hiss through gritted teeth as he moves to glance toward the smoking lens once more, tongue flickering out in slight aggravation, in distaste. “Tch...Mussst that damn thing be so _loud?”_ He moves to grip the monocle betwixt the tongs again, before he slithers toward a nearby sink, placing the burning glass within it as he reaches to turn on the faucet, sticking a claw beneath the water to determine that it was ice cold.

The water comes out frigid, almost too cold for him to touch, and it steams slightly as it initially hits the glass. The sparks continue, though seemingly less, and some of the soot washes off to spiral into the drain. A thin crack shows more easily, separating a section of burned glass. The screaming continues without a stop, not lessening in the least, and a larger spark jumps up the side of the tongs toward Pentious.

 _“Fuck!”_ Pentious practically jumps back at the sight of that spark, dropping the tongs into the sink with a clatter, and he lets one of his hands drift up to his temple, feeling his head starting to ache, feeling his vision starting to pound with pain as the visceral, feral screaming continues, roaring and raging within the captivity of his skull. But it was nothing. It was little more than a pinprick of pain against him. He could handle it. He just needed to figure out how to make it _cease._

“Shit...Shit..”

He glances around, before moving over to the nearest condenser, cranking the nozzle against the end of the tube that fed into it, watching as the iridescent glow of the magic begins to slide through the spiral shapes of the tube. “Perhapsss _this_ will get the damn thing to shut up..”

The wails make their way up into belligerent screaming, growing only louder as he waits for the liquid to reach the end and start dripping into the beaker below it. He captures just enough to cover the bottom of the beaker and shuts off the condenser, letting the tube run dry before turning back to the sink, where more of those green sparks were starting to spit up at the water.

He grits his teeth as he gets closer and closer to those green, ghoulish sparks, moving to shut off the water with a hand, before slowly lowering the beaker into the sink, slowly tipping the lip of the container toward the smoking, fizzling surface of the monocle. A single drop of the magic drips down to pool into the ribbon thin crack in the glass, and Pentious can’t help but hold his breath.

The screaming wells for a moment, almost seeming to surround him, shouting right into his ears, and then starts to subside. A few small sparks go off, and then nothing. Screaming lowers to wailing lowers to moaning lowers to whispers. The magic that had settled against the glass slowly dissolves, fading into nothing, leaving behind a seamless surface without a single scratch to it.

Pentious stares at the sight of the glass sitting at the bottom of the sink, gleaming and untouched, before he lets out a sigh of relief as the pounding headache produced by the screaming slowly starts to ebb away, moving to pick up the lens of the monocle in his hand, slowly lifting it up to his face, rubbing a thumb over it’s surface to wipe away any remnants of soot or water that still might cling to it. He lets a smirk slowly fill his face, and his eyes narrow with a look of eager malice. “Heheh...There we are. Perfect.”

A small amount of whispering seems to come from the glass as he holds it, quieting into silence as he rubs his thumb across it. It almost looks brand new, and with only a drop of magic to it as well. Quite the interesting results. He eyes the rest of the magic in the beaker he’s holding. “Hmmm...I wonder...” He moves to place the monocle back into the sink, taking a moment to slowly inch the beaker back down again, watching as at least two more drops slowly drip onto the glass of the monocle’s surface. He wasn’t about to go overboard and merely dump the whole thing onto it, not without testing to see what smaller dosages would produce.

The droplets slide across the surface, leave it sparkling clean where it touches. They sink into the glass again, the metal this time growing brighter, any paint that had flaked or burned renewing itself in an instant. The effect crawls up along the beads, though it only manages to catch a few before slowing to a stop.

“Fassscinating...” He feels his tail twitch eagerly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and and he can’t help but tilt his head ever so slightly, contemplating what would happen if he added more droplets. It seems to act as some sort of regenerative process for now, yes, but what would happen if there was no more damage to be healed? Hmm... For all he knew, too much could break it. Or make it explode. Magic did that too often. You think everything is fine and then - boom. He picks up the monocle again, looking over its new gleam, its freshness. The blemishes on the remaining beads look more like wear and tear than burns. How strange.

“...Bessst to not mess with this little trinket too much, I suppose.” He moves to place the beaker within the sink before peeling one of his gloves off, letting it drop to the floor as he moves to pull out a handkerchief from his pocket, gently dabbing at the monocle with the cloth in order to properly clean it. He’ll keep it to himself for now, perhaps visit the base to run some proper testing on the little thing, see how exactly it’s shape and frame had such a powerful connection to the magic that he had roused. This was far too valuable to give away so soon.

His grin curls across his face as he finishes cleaning the monocle and tucks it into a pocket close to his heart. “Let’s see what other secrets you have in store for me, hm?”

•••

“And there were so many people! I didn’t expect so many doctors and nurses and all. I expected a lot more patients, honestly.” Niffty puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head at herself as she talks. “I still can’t get over how... up to date everything is down there! I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but still! M.R.I. machines were new when I was learning about medicine. Same with ultrasounds! But it’s all down there, ready to be used. Wow.” She shakes her head again and points up ahead at the house, pulling a set of keys from a pocket in her dress. “Right up here.”

“Hehehe. I take it you enjoyed yourself then?” Nora was walking right beside her, holding a large white first aid case in her hands, having been considerate enough to snatch it from the medical stocks in order to provide for Niffty’s own medical room within the house. She hadn’t seen it herself yet, but she was looking forward to sprucing it up with an ample stock of medicine and supplies.

“More than enjoyed myself!” She laughs and skips ahead of her, walking backwards for a moment. “I haven’t actually been inside a working facility like that in years!” She spins around and darts up to the door as they make it to the steps leading up. “I swear, I thought I was all but the only one down here. Or maybe a few of us were scattered around but we didn’t have any organized efforts or something. It’s really nice to see others, you know?” She looks back at Nora, her key in the lock.

“Heheh. Yes, I know the feeling quite well. You wouldn’t be surprised about how little doctors wind up falling down here, that’s for certain. And the ones that _do_ fall usually don’t take their jobs seriously or are the kind that are just crass and bigoted idiots.” It’s enough to make her roll her eyes ever so slightly, shaking her head. She then pauses, for a moment, head tilting this way and that. “...Do you smell something burning?”

“Uh...” She sniffs and makes a face. “Smells kinda like food? Alastor could be home, but he said he’s an excellent cook.” She gives Nora a look. “Wouldn’t be the first time I heard that.” She pushes the door open and puts her key back in her pocket. A cloud of smoke greets her and she waves her hand. “Oh, _geez._ Alastor!? Did you leave the oven on or something!?”

There was no answer, and Nora slowly moves to place the first aid kit she had been carrying down, moving to guide a hook into her palm. “...Alastor? Are you there?”

“Maybe he put something in the oven and fell asleep upstairs or something.” She walks further into the house, glancing between the living room and the kitchen, and nods. “Yeah, definitely the kitchen.” She walks into the room, squinting as the smoke thickens. “Ugh. Whatever pot or pan he used is going to be ruined.”

“You’re...remarkably calm about this.” Nora can’t help but tilt her head even as she moves to walk into the house after her, her hook soon fading away from her hand as she approaches the stovetop, moving to turn off the flames. The mess that appears to be within the pot has turned into little more than blackened gunk, caked with soot and completely indistinguishable, and Nora lets out a hum as she moves to place the smoking pot within the sink. “You’d think even if he did fall asleep, he’d come running...”

“Hey, I’ve done it before. Not recently, but... yeah. Sometimes you just get really tired at the end of the day, you know? Can you open the window a little, so we can air this out?” Niffty points at the window above the sink. “I’ll get the one over here.” She moves to a window on the other side of the fridge and pulls herself up on the ledge, undoing the locks and pulling the window up. She huffs and jumps back down. “Guh. Some day I’m going to get a me-sized house, I swear.”

“Heheh. I’m sure you’ll find one someday, dear.” Nora too moves to undo the latches of the window she’s facing, and soon the smoke begins to slowly air outwards. She moves to turn on the water faucet to begin washing away the door and gunk from the pot, letting out a sigh. “That man is damn lucky he hasn’t burned down the house.”

“Yeah, tell me....” Niffty slows down, staring at the ground as she walks toward Nora. Her pupil contracts and her breath comes thin. “N-Nora? That’s blood. Blood on the floor.” She walks past her, patting her tail as she passes. “Holy shit, there’s a lot more. Alastor!?”

Nora’s head immediately snaps toward the floor, catching sight of the crimson that littered the floor in large streaks, in droplets, and she feels her breath catch. She turns off the sink and draws her hook again, moving to grip Niffty by the shoulder, able to see now that there was blood smearing on the wall in a handprint, that there were several ornaments in pieces on the ground, having been knocked from their shelves. “Get behind me. Get behind me now.”

“Wha- I-?” Niffty can barely argue with her as she’s pulled back. “It - it looks like it’s heading to the infirmary! He could be hurt!”

“We don’t know what caused the blood..” Her voice is a tight hiss and she begins to slowly walk further along the blood trail. “And more so....We don’t know what the loss of blood could _mean..”_

“Well, he...” She swallows, having to admit that if Alastor was anywhere near as gone as he was when she found her, there might be issues. She bites her lip and follows her closely. “Just don’t kill him, please. There’s tranquilizers in the infirmary. I can knock him out.”

“..Of course.” She nods softly, even as the blood path begins to grow more thick, more copious in it’s amounts, and she feels her claws curl around the base of her hook as she sees the infirmary’s door wide open. “...Alastor? Alastor, are you there?”

Niffty sticks close to the walls, eying the smears above her. They were jerky, uneven, like he couldn’t walk straight. Nora stops ahead of her, carefully peering around the corner, and then tenses, her tail feathers spreading and the sound of her plumage rising against her coat filling the air. Niffty feels her breath catch, her heart pound, and her muscles tense. “What is it?”

“..He’s on the ground...He’s unconscious..” She slowly lowers her hook a touch. “..There’s blood against his face.”

“Let me see-” She darts around her, stumbling to a stop as she sees him laying on his side, facing the cabinets. “Alastor!” She hurries up to him, effortlessly dodging the droplets of blood on the ground. “Oh my God, there’s so much blood. Not as much as I’ve seen him in, but definitely a lot, _oh my God._ Alastor?” She kneels next to him, carefully pulling his shoulder toward her and cupping his head. Blood matts his hair on his right side, streaking over his chin and down his neck. It all seems to be coming from his eye and nose. But- “He’s breathing! He, uh-” She feels his pulse. “Heart rate is slow, but he’s always been a bit - a bit...” She takes a deep breath to calm herself.

Nora slowly moves to scan the room, eyes narrowing softly, and she moves to step closer to both Alastor and Niffty. She crouches down to examine him, letting her hand run over his neck, before she slowly tilts her beak upward toward the cabinets. “...There’s a needle.” She moves to pluck up the opened bottle from the counter. “..Diazepam.”

“Ugh, oh, _come on,_ Alastor. Not again.” Niffty scowls at him for a moment before looking up at her. “Can you tell how much he used?” She looks back at him, setting him on his back to undo his bowtie, collar, and cuffs. “Last time he had to take a lot, but...” She frowns as she undoes his right arm, carefully pushing his sleeve away. Bruises line his skin, almost webbed, a pattern she’s never seen before. “What the hell is this?”

“Let me see..” She moves to hold up the bottle and the needle up to her eye, and after a moment, she hums softly. “Looks like a single dose..Was that enough to knock him out before?” She moves to glance down at them, but stops at the sight of the bruisings. “I...I don’t know..”

Niffty shakes her head, gently feeling over his arm for any kind of swelling. “He took three doses last time, along with an anesthetic, but he was in one of his... moods? I don’t know what to call them. Maybe episodes is better. I don’t know if that changes things.” She pulls his eye lids back and flicks fire onto a thumb, holding it just so the light can reflect, first one then the other. “Looks like some blood vessels popped in his eye, there’s blood covering his right tear duct, but he’s fine otherwise. No concussion, no bruises that I can see.”

“Hmmm...Strange..” She moves to place the bottle down before slowly moving to push her arms beneath Alastor’s torso. She slowly moves to lift him up into her arms, grunting softly. “Nn...Might be best if we move him to the bed.”

“Yeah. Yeah, good idea.” She moves back to give her space, then hurries across the room to grab a chair, picking it up and bringing it toward the bed. “There’s, um, a bathroom across the hall. I’ll get some water.”

“Thank you, dear.” She nods softly, before moving to slowly place Alastor down on the cot, hesitating only a touch before starting to undo the bow tie around his neck, not wanting it to be a choking hazard. Her eyes glance over the bruises on his arm, and she feels herself grimace at the sight of them, purple, almost _black_ in hue.

His fingers twitch as she watches them and he makes a swallowing noise, brows furrowing slightly. Outside of the room, there’s a few clangs of what sound like pots and pans, and then the sound of running water. She slowly moves to place a hand on his forehead, blinking softly as she finds his skin positively radiating with heat, a thin film of sweat sticking to his skin, and she moves to swivel her head toward the doorway. “Make sure the water is cold, Niffty! I think he might have a bit of a fever!”

“Cold? Are you sure? He was chill when I touched him!” There’s the sound of the water turning off and back on again, as well as water draining.

Alastor inhales unevenly, then exhales, swallowing again and turning his face away from Nora’s hand. “Mmh...”

“Cold?” She frowns intensely down at Alastor’s face, before she moves to slowly turn the man onto his side, ensuring that he wasn’t flat on his back. “Are you sure? He’s feeling as hot as a poker right now! Starting to sweat!”

“Something’s not right.” Niffty comes back in, hefting a large bowl of water with her. She hefts it onto the bedside table and then hurries back to the cabinets to grab some towels. “Could he have just fallen ill? Maybe he knew something was wrong, and that’s why he came here? But then why take diazepam? And what caused the bleeding? He could have ruptured a tear duct, but his nose was also bleeding.”

“Hmm...ssr...” His legs shift, hands clenching.

Niffty hops onto the chair she had brought close to the bed, frowning. “Is he waking up?”

“I..I think so. He started shifting when I touched him..” Nora moves to take one of the towels, moving to dab it into the water before pushing back Alastor’s bangs, slowly sliding the wet part of the towel against his forehead. “Been making noises. His jaw keeps flexing and he keeps swallowing.”

“Maybe he’s dehydrated...? No, that doesn’t make sense. Maybe the blood got in his mouth? It’s on his lips.” Niffty takes another towel, carefully starting to wipe the crusting blood away from his mouth. She gingerly pulls his jaw open, finding a few of his teeth stained red in places, but nothing else. “No obstruction. Should have checked that earlier.”

He takes a sharp breath and shakes his head, rolling onto his back again. His left hand raises and falls onto his stomach. “Hnn...” He grimaces, eyes fluttering. “Ell...hm.”

“Alastor?” Niffty leans closer, trying to watch his eyes. “Alastor, can you hear me?”

“Mm...” He grimaces again, but doesn’t say anything coherent.

“Shit. Try to keep him on his side.” Nora’s teeth grit as she moves to grip the man by the waist, moving to try and pull him upwards so that he was no longer on his back. “Fevers and sweating, blood around the mouth, he could be bleeding internally somehow. Maybe. It’s my best guess as if now.”

“Careful, he doesn’t like-”

“Offa me...” He waves a hand weakly, missing her hand, and finally manages to open an eye. He’s unfocused, almost lethargic.

Niffty blinks, then grins uncertainly. “Hey, Al? Can you hear me?”

He stares for a moment. “..Niff...?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” She tilts her head a bit to try and look at him on his level. “Nora’s here. Do you remember Nora?”

His gaze shifts after a moment, staring at Nora hovering over him. “..Hooks.”

“Good enough..” Nora leans down as best she can to look Alastor in the eye, trying to determine how glassy his pupil was. She holds up at least three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He takes a moment to focus on her hand, then winces, leaning his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. “Loo..ss..”

“No, Alastor.” Niffty leans forward, hesitating on touching him. “Open your eyes, Alastor. You have to stay awake, alright?”

He shakes his head. “Lucifer was...” He swallows roughly. “Magic. Can’t...” His brows tighten, and then air hiccups through his chest again and he curls up. “Haa...”

Nora feels her eyes widen, her breath catch in her throat, and she moves to place a hand on Alastor’s shoulder. “What did he do? What did he do to you?”

He tenses, saying nothing for a moment, shaking subtly. “J-just scrying... Hurts.” He rubs flecks of dried blood off his face.

“Here, Al, let me get that...” Niffty gently presses the cloth in her hand to his face, carefully moving his hand out of the way, trying to get as much blood away from his eye as possible.

He slowly opens his eyes again. “Dezapim. Kicked him out.”

“..That explains the needle..” Nora slowly loses some of the tension in her frame as she turns her head to look at the bottle, and she lets out a sigh, glancing toward him again. “How do you feel?”

“Mm. Been better.” His grin stretches for a moment before he grimaces again, inhaling sharply and bringing his hand toward his eye. “Hhh-”

Niffty snatches his wrist. _“Don’t_ touch your eye. You’ll make it worse.”

He winces, blood welling in the corner of his eye. “It’s... hurting again. Pressure. Burning, I-” His hand tenses in her grip, shaking.

“Shit.” Nora winces at the sight of the blood, at how his body begins to shake, and she moves to lean in as much as she can, trying to catch a glimpse of his eye, trying to see if she could detect any inklings of magic through it. “Alastor, _Alastor,_ focus on my voice. Take deep breaths, you hear me? Deep breaths.”

His chest rises and falls quickly as he tries to listen to her, cringing intermittently. “Hmm. Hm.” His eyes flick up to stare at her, some strange mix of frightened, pained, and delirious. His breathing stutters on both the inhale and exhale, an occasional puff following the end. Beads of sweat dot across his forehead.

Niffty bites her lips, setting Alastor’s wrist down on the bed next to him and glancing at Nora. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about? Lucifer, magic, scrying? Is he talking about _the_ Lucifer?”

“..I know _of_ scrying, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it happen like this. Scrying is when you use magic with a mirror or some sort of glass object to look through it and see things. This....This isn’t scrying, whatever it is.” She moves to re-wet the towel, softly pressing it against his forehead. “And as for Lucifer...I don’t know if there could be any other Lucifer running around..”

“Yeah, fair...” She slides a hand into Alastor’s and squeezes. “Hey, you’ll be alright, okay?”

Alastor’s gaze shifts to her even as he lets out a pained wheeze, blood starting to pool under his cheek. “He has my monocle.” A stroke of pain laces across his skull and his ears bristle, teeth grinding against each other. _“Kch.”_ He coughs, body starting to shake worse. His eyes dart around frantically and he squeezes Niffty’s hand. “Th-this is - I’m.. spinning? D-Different. _Kch.”_

“Alastor?” Nora’s shoulders tense a touch, and she feels her feathers ruffling in alarm. “Alastor, what’s wrong?”

The pain surrounding his eye turns to a scalding heat, spreading down his throat and into his chest. He tenses, curling tighter into a ball and making strange coughing noises. He blinks, blinks again, his vision smearing, swirling until it turns into a mess of... Blue? That isn't right. Nothing should be blue right now. Dark blue, almost shiny, see through. Bubbles obscure his vision, wires somewhere in the dark distance. Mechanical buttons flickering, some light flashing off to the side. It doesn't make sense.

Back in his body, he's thrashing and screaming in a pain so terrible he could almost feel himself growing numb to it, almost feel himself floating halfway in and out of his body. He can feel the sensation of something wrapping around him, can feel it’s heat, it’s burning, blistering heat, wrapping tight around his shoulders, his torso, his knees, growing tighter and tighter with each second, and though no matter how much he writhes, he can’t seem to break it. He feels blood running down his eye, hears the faintest echoes of screaming, of shouting, and yet it sounds diluted, sounds submerged, as if he was completely underwater.

He flexes his claws, barely able to move his arms, vague flashes of rubble, of a tank, of a silhouetted hand against a background of brilliant, swirling light. His body shakes, spasms, as the tank comes back to him, something floating within it, but he can't make out what. It flickers, and he can't tell if he's inside the tank or outside it, looking in, if he's the one being suspended, if the wires are dug under his skin. He suddenly comes back to the pain and claustrophobic tightness, the sound of retching meeting his ears though he can't recognize the burning in his throat as his own. His stomach clenches again and he coughs, wrinkles his nose, and coughs again. There was the sound of more screaming, alarmed, as well as the splattering of something wet hitting the ground, and it’s only then that he feels the taste of..of _something_ against his tongue, burning and foul and vaguely tasting of bile, and he can’t help but whimper to himself, feeling his ears slowly pinning themselves to the back of his head. He tries to pant, to cough, but another wave of nausea comes, and he finds himself wretching again, this time _feeling_ the stinging sludge slide past his teeth and spill past his chin, and he feels tears prick at his eyes.

He gags afterwards, trembling, feeling like his very being had been steamrolled into the constitution of a paper bag. He huffs, breathing labored, dizzy, sight coming in and out of focus. There's a trail of dark, oily liquid staining the sheets under his cheek. He can't tell if he's freezing or overheating.

It wasn’t long before the pain, the deep, burning, jagged pain, slowly begins to wane, and it was only then that Alastor could begin to become aware of his surroundings again. He could feel himself being carried, the claustrophobic tightness no longer around his limbs, and he hears the sound of a creaking faucet, of water falling. A hand slowly moves to press against his cheek, and a voice buzzes against his ears, faint, but there.

“..Alas....Alastor?”

He weakly tries to move his face away from the hand touching him, limbs feeling too weak and shaky to even try moving, and works his jaw to try and speak. His nose wrinkles as he tastes the acidic bile in his mouth. He manages a cough before he can get out a word.

“Alastor....gonna need to...your shirt, alright?” The hand comes again, and he feels it press to his forehead this time.

He tries to make a sour face at the feeling of being touched again, but he isnt sure it comes across properly. "Wha' abou' my... shirt?"

“Need to...it off. Can you hear me?” The voice comes a bit clearer, and his vision clears enough to see Niffty staring at him with obvious concern. Nora’s beak was also tilted down in his direction, and from the angle, he vaguely realized he was being carried, surrounded by the tiles of the bathroom.

"...Signal needs to clear. Raise antenna." He manages a chuckle, then coughs and takes a breath. "Mm. In and out. Dizzy." He swallows, cringing at the taste. "Geh."

Niffty frowns, looking even more concerned, and she moves to push the shower curtain aside to check on the water. “It’s lukewarm.” She glances back toward him. “Al, we need to take your shirt off. We’ll leave the pants on but you need to get clean and we need to cool the fever down.”

"Mm. I think.. I'm fine." He can feel himself shaking against Nora's arms, the taste in his mouth only getting worse. "Feeling better."

“You’re not fine, Alastor.” Nora’s eye narrows down at him, sternly. “I can feel you trembling and you’re getting pale.”

"If it really matters, I've already seen you without a shirt on." Niffty puts her hands on her hips, mirroring Nora's look.

"Hmm." He swallows, glancing between the two of them, and exhales. "Fine."

Nora sighs softly, seemingly in relief, before she moves to set Alastor down against the edge of the tub, keeping one hand on his shoulder to keep him upright and steady as she starts to unbutton his shirt. “Apologies for the chains, by the way. I didn’t know if you were ready to...you know...”

He wobbles a little as he's set down, but sitting upright almost seems to clear more of the fog from his mind. "I... barely felt it, honestly." He squeezes his eyes shut as a dull ache spreads over the back of his skull. "Mm. Headache."

"Do you think you can drink something?" Niffty hovers nearby.

"Alcohol, please."

"How about water." She gives him an unimpressed but amused look as she heads out of the room. "I'll be back."

“No booze. Doctor’s order.” She calls after Niffty, giving Alastor a soft glare, before she sighs, moving to slowly pull off the wet, soiled fabric of his shirt. She seems to stare at the mess for a moment before she lifts her head to call out to Niffty again. “Might have to watch out for internal bleeding!” She glances back toward Alastor, frowning. “Do you feel any sharp pains anywhere?”

He helps her shrug his shirt away, shivering in the air of the room and loosely hugging himself. The act covers a few scars crisscrossing his torso but exposes others along his shoulders and sides. "My eye still. Right eye. Can hardly see out of it, though that's hardly new." He shivers again. "Dull aches, otherwise."

“Mm...Anyplace you were struck at all, recently?” She moves to scan his torso for any deep bruises of cuts, grimacing a touch at the sight of the scars. “You seemed to be crashing into the shelves downstairs.”

"No, no, not at all. It..." He exhales, bringing a hand to rub against his eye. "It was all simply... Lucifer. Hmm." He's going to have to find a way to nip that problem in the bud. He didn't have the capacity to deal with it at the moment, though. "The worst should be my arm. I think."

“Yes, yes, I noticed that..” She pauses as she glances over his arm. “..Do you think you can take off your shoes too?” I want you under the shower as soon as possible, to help deal with the fever.”

"Yes. Certainly." He looks down at his feet, then unceremoniously kicks his shoes off, revealing cloven hoofs. "I've been meaning to buff them anyways."

“Right.” She moves to place her wrist under the shower spray, humming softly. “Think you’re ready to get in?”

"If I have no other choice." He glances over his shoulder, wobbling a little, and puts a hand on Nora's arm to steady himself. "Hm. More dizzy than I thought."

“Exactly why I want you in the shower, dear.” She sighs softly. “...Do you have any idea why Lucifer would try to do this to you?”

“I have an inkling.” He shifts around, putting his hooves in the tub, and carefully lowers himself inside. He shivers at the feeling of water on his skin. “Hmm. He doesn’t like me, in case you can’t tell.”

“I most certainly can. And usually the people Lucifer finds a grudge with don’t _last_ long. So how have you?” She tilts her head ever so slightly, crossing her arms.

He doesn’t answer immediately, an ear flicking at the question. He leans back in the tub. “By not talking about his grudges.” He doubts it’ll be enough, but at least it buys him time to think. Why _would_ Lucifer keep someone alive that he doesn’t like?

“Hmm. Right.” She doesn’t look convinced, not entirely. “...Well, I suppose if he wanted you dead, he’d have killed you already.”

“Mmhmm.” He closes his eyes for a moment.

Niffty walks back in. “Don’t tell me he fell asleep.”

“Just resting.” He opens his eyes again and holds a hand out when she offers a glass of water. He starts drinking, swishing the water around his mouth.

“Well...I think it’s safe to say you probably won’t be working tomorrow.” Nora seems to try for a joke, grinning a touch.

“I haven’t been bedridden since before the twenties. Don’t count on it.” He grins a bit at her.

“Then I doubt you’ve ever lived with a nurse in the house.” Niffty shakes her head slightly. She glances between Nora and Alastor. “Did we figure out if it was anything more than just.. Lucifer?”

“..I don’t believe so.” Nora shakes her head softly. “I couldn’t really sense any magic when his eye started to bleed again...Although..” She frowns a bit harder, glancing toward Alastor again. “I don’t see why Lucifer would perform the scrying spell a second time.”

He purses his lips, looking away from them and shivering in the water. "It... felt different. More like it was meant to hurt. But even that doesn't make sense to me, with what he said."

"What he said?" Niffty frowns. "Did he... talk to you?"

He curses himself and leans further back in the tub. "Yes."

“What did he say?” Nora grows a touch more stiff at that, her feathers ruffling, not alarmed but definitely more tense than before.

"Nothing important. Nothing worse than the average sinner at least." He catches their looks and sighs. "A few threats, nothing more. I've heard worse."

"The King of Hell threatened you and you've 'heard worse'?" Niffty stares at him like he's grown a third head.

“I wouldn’t take the threat of the Devil so lightly, dear.” Nora also seemed to be looking at him with much skepticism at that statement. “Especially not with _how_ he threatened you.”

"Please. He's done worse." He flicks at the water pooling near him. "He simply caught me by surprise this time, nothing more."

"This time?" Niffty's eye widens further.

"I-" He huffs. "Damn drugs. Never mind."

“Just what exactly did you _do?_ What did you do to anger the damn Devil so badly?” Nora stares at him now, eyes wide, no doubt in shock.

"I - _nothing."_ He hunches defensively, ears flicking. "He's worried about his daughter running around Hell and walking smack dab into a known serial killer. A serial killer that he knows. He - we-" He takes a deep breath, gears spinning without any sense of where to go. His tongue continues moving regardless. _"We_ knew each other. Closely. That's - that's it. Nothing more."

There was a pause of little more than silence. Then, Niffty’s eye widens, and something in her mind seems to click. “...Were you _dating_ the fucking _Devil?”_

He feels his face flush, barely able to stammer out a response. He sinks further into the bath, the back of his head resting against the lip and pulls himself together with a deep breath. "Whatever I _did_ or _didnt_ do with the Devil is none of your business."

“You were, weren’t you?” Niffty points a finger at him, her expression filled with nothing more than shock. “You were dating the god damn King of Hell, weren’t you? Is that why he did this? Was he some kinda, I dunno, batshit crazy ex?”

He groans and slaps a hand to his face. There's no way he's getting out of this. "He's an overprotective father running an anarcho-capitalistic society from an authoritarian chair, so, yes, I suppose you could categorize him as a 'batshit crazy ex.'"

“I-You-“ Niffty looks both unbearably confused and frustrated, her hands burying themselves in her hair. “Y-You _dated_ the Devil and you didn’t think to tell me?” 

“I - huh - _what?”_ He stares at her, confused.

Nora puts a hand on Niffty’s shoulder, still looking like she’s trying to process things herself. “Let’s not... let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here.”

Alastor swallows roughly. “ _Do not_ tell anyone. I don’t want any of this leaving the room, much less reaching Pentious.”

Nora glances down at Niffty, then back at him, before she nods softly. “Of course. Not a single word.” She seems to pause for a moment. “..What should I tell Pentious then? You’re in no condition to work, and if I need to tell him that, I need to provide a good explanation.”

He’s quiet for a moment, trying to pull a _reasonable_ answer from his mind before blurting it out into the air. He rubs at his face. “Tell him... hmm... Tell him that Lucifer used my monocle to scry me. Nothing about my personal life. I’ll... figure out the rest.”

“Are you certain?” Nora tilts her head ever so slightly.

He rolls his eyes at the question and sighs. “Not in the least. I panicked in telling both of you. I never planned on telling anyone.”

“Well, it’s not like he’d _care,_ right?” Niffty glances between them. “No one in Hell really cares about... you know.”

“There are plenty of bigots in Hell, Niffty. But that’s not what I’m most worried about.” Alastor closes his eyes. “Anyone with connections to Lucifer is seen as either a liability or an asset.”

“Hmmm...” Nora sighs a bit, before nodding. “I’ll try my best to explain it to Pentious, though I doubt he won’t have questions.”

“Tell him that I’ll explain it myself. And also?” He gives her a tired, vaguely annoyed look. “Tell him to not use his telepathy powers.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a small change of pace. Nothing too major this chapter, just some time to take a breath and focus on really making this slow-burn smoke.

Alastor had never been meant for heavy sleeping. Sleeping any longer than four to six hours a night left him restless, listless during the day. Being sick and/or recovering from a telepathically communicated, King of Hell sized punch to the gut didn’t change that. In fact, it almost made things worse.

There were too many unknowns all of a sudden. Why now? Would he keep his word? What if he runs into his daughter by accident? Does his radio station count? His right eye still hurts from all the pressure and he’s fairly certain his vision is even worse than before, if that were possible. His stomach had settled as well, but it had woken him up with hunger pains early in the morning. Thankfully the normal kind. No literally-about-to-eat-a-demon-cow urges spurred by sudden depletion of resources. None of his cooking was salvageable either.

He exhales and tilts his head around the edge of the couch. He had wanted to head upstairs for bed, but neither Nora nor Niffty trusted him on the stairs, so the couch it was. Niffty had fallen asleep watching him on a nearby chair. They had spent some time after Nora had left having some idle chitchat. It was... strange, though he imagines more because of his own self-imposed semi-solitude than anything else. He’d rather not repeat it.

He sits upright, slowly, feeling some aches and bruises from his various falls, thrashes, and who knows what else. He doesn’t feel quite so dizzy, which is good. No change in vision, no spots, no odd voices. He keeps his eyes on Niffty and carefully stands up, shifting the blanket from his chest. She herself was currently slumped over, her shoulder resting on the arm of the chair while her head was slumping to the left, and her deep breathing seems to signal to him that she wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Her face was calm, blank, almost serene, her mouth open ever so slightly for her to breathe, her arms sluggishly crossed over each other, legs curled up on the chair, bent at the knees. She’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Alastor rubs his face, exhaling. She had been so worried about him. He’s probably been her most worrisome case to date, and things were probably only going to get worse. He slowly pushes himself upright, to his feet, stretching and taking a moment to take stock of his faculties again. No vision issues. No fainting. Good. He takes a step to move around the coffee table, then pauses and glances at Niffty again. Poor thing, all curled up like that. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but... He sighs and picks up the blanket he had been using and shifts toward her, gently laying the blanket over her.

She thankfully doesn’t seem to stir at the motion, her breathing just as deep, just as heavy, and Alastor lets out another sigh, this one of relief, before he moves to slowly make his way out of the room, pausing briefly to grab the door and close it behind him, taking care to make the resulting click as quiet as possible. He stands there for a moment or two, hand still on the knob, feeling the cold metal growing warm against his palm, and it takes a moment to register that his ears are flat against his skull. “Ugh, no, _no_ .” He runs his hands through his hair, alternately fluffing it up and fixing it as he takes a breath and closes his eyes. He’s barely known Niffty and he’s already getting so attached. Not a good sign. He drops his head back and rubs his face. She’d be worried if he just left. Maybe a note would be fine? Yes, a note would be fine. He makes his way into the kitchen, passing by a few droplets of blood that had been forgotten in cleanup. He rummages around a little and finds a small pad and a pen, and scribbles down a small note about heading out for fresh air. He isn’t sure exactly where he’s going to go, but he _does_ at least need a walk. He needs to think, and he does his best thinking while walking.

Thankfully, after his impromptu shower, he had been allowed to change into new clothes, which he was still wearing, so he wouldn’t have to risk heading back upstairs. He really _does_ need to get his spats cleaned and polished sometime soon, but that could wait. He leans against the wall in front of the door as he puts them on, and carefully slips outside without slamming the door.

He stands there again for a moment, taking the time to glance all around him, the sidewalks seeming to be empty for the moment, before finally taking a deep breath and letting it out, the air invigorating his lungs somewhat. He runs his hand through his hair one last time, takes a moment to feel his lips so he can determine that he’s smiling, before finally moving to start walking. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, and this time, he wanted to take his time getting there.

There’s a plethora of scenic routes in the area, one of which brings him through a park, and he decides to take that route, passing houses that were dead to the world and the occasional passed out drunk. It’s early, even early for most of Hell, and he hadn’t really taken the time to glance at a clock before leaving. It’s almost a little chill for Hell too, a little above room temperature if he were to guess. He goes to straighten his bowtie only to realize he isn’t wearing it, and he suddenly feels more naked than he had anticipated. When was the last time he had gone out in public without proper neck apparel? Horsefeathers, something really _is_ wrong with him. He takes a moment to glance down at his attire, letting out a touch of a sigh upon what he saw. A long rustic red coat, old and corroded from decades of being kept in a closet and eaten alive by moths, the color looking faded, worn, as if it was being slowly sapped away, and just by the looks of the sleeves and the tail ends of the coat itself, it certainly could use more repair; ragged pieces violently torn, thin threads all but flapping in the wind, and just looking at it was enough to give him a heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach, like he had just swallowed a rock.

Apparently, it had been the only thing Niffty could find in his wardrobe. His other vest and dress shirt were still stained and soaking, so she had found his old, classic look. There are still holes from where the buckshot tore through his stomach, but the shirt underneath, as trusty as always, covers any skin that may have been revealed. Proper, high quality, Rosie charmed fabric. Self-stitching. The one on his jacket must have worn out. He shrugs the thought aside and looks around him, taking in the increase in shrubbery as he walks. He must be nearing the park. This time he could see at least one or two demons passing by, some of them looking tired and others looking as if they were taking morning jogs, and he did his damndest to not get in their ways either way. He didn’t exactly feel in the mood for random conversation with passerby at the moment. He takes a moment to check he was still smiling, again, and his fingers idly curl, squeezing down on nothing, his palms itching to hold something in them, something thin, something sturdy, something he could really swing around. It was an urge he hadn’t really gotten before, and it was enough to make his claws itch.

It really wouldn’t be early to start drinking, not for Hell. He’d have to go further into the City for that, though, and he’s already taking a long walk to his destination. He forces himself to take a steadying breath, flexing his claws and trying to keep them straight for a moment. He barely lasts a few seconds before that itchiness turns to burning and he’s clenching his fist again. Not good. Today is not a good day.

It dawns on him that, more than likely, that’s the very reason he’s out here so early in the first place. Heading to Rosie’s estate had always been something he did in moments of stress. Someone to talk to, someone to rant to, who could actually respond more than static. He loves his radio station more than anything, but even he had to admit that they couldn’t respond to a person. Typically. As he walks closer to the Emporium, he takes a moment to examine his coat, it’s inner and outer pockets, just to check that there was no metal to be seen on his person. He wanted to get through that god damn annoying entrance as fast as possible, just to make sure he could get to Rosie as quickly as he could. He needed to vent again, he knew that now, and thankfully, while it wasn’t as...horribly angry like it was last time, it was certainly enough to make that fictional rock in his stomach grow heavier. He crosses his arms after a moment, giving his elbows a squeeze in hopes of chasing away the itching in his palms.

He glances back down to see the line coming up, and lets out a sigh of relief when he finds that the opening morning was merciful on his weary soul, and that all the lines to the opening were completely empty, with only one guard standing by, looking as if he was still trying to shake off the lingering feeling of sleep. The guard glances toward him as he walks through the empty line, not depositing any weapons because he didn’t have any, and although the man raises a brow at his appearance (no doubt because of the ragged suit), he moves to stand aside to let him through when the metal detector didn’t even so much as peep. Clearly he wasn’t in the mood to chat.

He doesn't mind in the least and hurries into the fleet of mostly closed stores in search of an elevator. To the average individual, he supposes it might seem eerie to wander the graveyard stillness of such a site, but he finds it relaxing, a space where the static plaguing his mind could fan out and find their own spaces. He slips inside an elevator and pushes in the same few numbers Rosie had and leans back against the far wall, closing his eyes. Usually technology like this was always the same kind to get under his nerves, to make him fidget and wince at how the buzzing of electricity fills him, all foreign and wrong, like maggots squirming around against his skin, but this time, the buzzing is marginally less irritating than before, and it was enough to have him let out a heavy sigh to the open air. “..Can’t I just catch one break? Just one?”

The week had been all too eventful, even for him, and the only gods who seem to spare him are the elevator gods. The door dings and opens onto Rosie's floor without any kind of strangeness or breakdowns. The buzzing feeling of the electricity ebbs slightly as he passes the threshold of the contraption and as it shuts behind him, leaving him in the relative quiet of Rosie's personal space, he exhales yet again. The ever so slight self-normalizing of this new buzzing electricity is something he decides to shelve for another conversation on another date. He walks forward, rubbing his arms as he feels the air conditioning running.

He reaches the end of the hall, reaches the doors that he knew to contain Rosie’s office, and this time, rather than barging in, he remembers to knock this time, making sure to use his usual rhythm to indicate, that it was in fact, him. There was silence for a moment, before Rosie’s voice was heard on the other side, sounding sleepy, as if she had just gotten out of bed. 

“Come in.”

Alastor's ears flick up for a moment, somewhat surprised to hear Rosie's voice, but he turns the doorknob and slips inside anyways. He spots her immediately, hair unkempt and wearing a long nightgown, writing something down in a notebook as she reads from a clipboard full of reports. A cup of warm coffee stands a safe distance away from her paperwork. Alastor closes the door behind him and raises a brow. "G'morning. I didn't expect you to be awake yet."

“Mm. I could say the same thing for you.” She pauses to yawn, moving to grab her cup of coffee and lifting it to her lips to take a sip, extending her pinky to point towards a small table on the other side of the room, where a coffee maker sat. “Take some ifyou need it. Lord knows there’s no shortage of caffeine here.”

"Thank you." He can feel how he visibly relaxes at the offer, but he doesn't dwell on it as he turns and starts to put together a cup of joe. "So I take it yesterday was quite a day for everyone? I'm assuming you're working on something related to that blast yesterday."

“Mmm. Trying to get the word around, yes. Apparently the King stated that he had official confirmation about what that blast was and that he’ll be explaining everything in about two days. The only thing he’s said so far is that it wasn’t nuclear, nor is it some sign of Armageddon.” She sips at her coffee again, before placing it back down. “Saw the whole damn thing from my window.”

"Hm." He rolls his eyes where she can't see his face and chuckles lightly at the idea of Armageddon. Pentious must be having a grand ol' time. He can barely remember the brilliant flash of light between the two times he had passed out since then. Three if he counts falling asleep as passing out. "It certainly was impressive."

“Impressive is one word to describe it. I call it concerning.” She makes a motion that makes it clear she’s rolling her eyes as well, jotting down a few more scribbles on her papers. “What brings you here so early, darling? You...” She trails off a bit. “...Are you _still_ wearing that trash heap of a coat?”

"Hey." He pouts and looks at her over his shoulder. "It's too early for personal jabs. And for the record it's all I had that wasn't somehow bloodstained. It's been an interesting week for me." He turns back to his coffee, letting the machine do it's work.

“ _For God’s sake_ , Al, it’s still got the holes where you were _shot_ in them!” She sighs, letting a hand run down her face, shaking her head, but then she pauses. “...Blood stained?” She raises her head at that, looking concerned now. “Why are your clothes covered in blood?”

"Bar fight. Some light torture - I was holding the knife, no worries. And...." He takes a deep breath, picking up his coffee and sipping as he turns to her. "Well, the last one is more complicated."

Her gaze hardens a touch, and she grows a bit more tense. “It isn’t anything _Pentious_ did, is it?”

"No, nothing to do with him. No." He sighs and takes a seat in front of her desk. "It's has to do with... Lucifer. He used a S-scrying spell on me. With adverse effects." He takes a longer sip at his coffee, trying to let the scalding heat of the drink take him away from the conversation.

“...Lucifer?” She stares at him, wide-eyed, shocked, as if he had just slapped her across the face. “The _King_ ? Why would he seek you out like that? What does he _want_ with you? What _happened_?”

He stares at her for a moment, then cocks a brow. "Remember when I told you that he's the worst ex to have? That, but also apparently his daughter knows who I am, cannibalism and all, and she's freaked out by it. So he's all... annoyed." He sinks back into his chair and continues drinking.

There was a slight pause, and then she sighs softly, letting a hand run down her face. “Pardon me for being concerned when I hear you mention your ex casting a spell on you when your ex is _the Devil_ , dear.” She moves to sip at her coffee, placing her pen down, showing she’s cast aside her work duties for the moment, steepling her fingers when she’s done. “..So...He scryed on you because of his daughter?”

"Yes. Worried about her. She's roaming the city, in case you didn't know." He exhales and lowers his mug. "I can understand the worry, but he's just so... _dramatic_ about it. Like I'd go and kill the princess! Ha!" He rolls his eyes. "I could care less about any of the Magne family."

“Hmm...I don’t think he quite knows that, dear. That, and...Well, its not like his family _haven’t_ faced death threats and attempted assassinations _before_ . Word says the 1600’s were _really_ bad with those.” She idly moves to grip her pen again but this time just starts to click it. “What exactly did the spell do to you?”

"Mm." He looks away from her, shifting. His eye starts itching again. "He had my monocle, so it mostly focused on my eye. Mostly just pain, the usual. He managed to partially control my arm at one point. Heh. It was almost funny. Almost."

The clicking stops. She silently holds out one of her hands.

He glances toward her as she offers a hand and doesn't do anything for a moment. Then, as seems the theme of the day, he sighs and leans forward, setting his mug on her desk and placing a hand in hers. "It wasn't all too bad, Rosie. So my eye was bleeding a bit! And I vomited a little, but who hasn't had that happen to them every once and a while?" He waves his other hand around as his talks.

“You were scared, weren’t you?” She was looking at him with concern now, her hand gently squeezing his. “Your smile’s all crooked, dear.”

"I-" His shoulders tense and he brings a hand to his face. Definitely still smiling but... she wasn't wrong. He slowly lowers his hand, ears flicking, and laughs sardonically. "It's not like there's much else to be when the King of Hell is rooting through your skull." He pulls his hand back and rubs his face, leaning on the desk. "It's been twenty years, more, and he's _still_ peeved."

“Mm.” She’s silent for a moment, before sighing. “I know it’s...far from comforting, but I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t want you _dead_ , at least. You wouldn’t be here if he did.”

"True." He lowers his hands, then picks up his coffee again and takes a large gulp. "He said he _would_ kill me if I stepped near his daughter though. And he said it as if she knows who I really am." His brows furrow. That, along with Pentious telling him that she had been researching him.... "I'm fairly certain she's looking for me."

“...Looking for you?” She stares at him, as if bewildered by the whole idea. “Why would she be looking for _you_?”

"I don't know!" He tosses a hand to the side, exasperated. "It's been as if everyone in Hell is suddenly looking for me this past week. Either it's my radio station, killing Valentino's men after they kidnapped me, or something to do with Niffty helping me and the subsequent stand off with Vox." He squints at her. "Vox. Has he put my face on any stations yet?"

She blinks at the question, as if a tad startled by his outburst, but then shakes her head. “No, I haven’t seen you on the TV at all. I would’ve called you if he did. I think at the moment he’s more worried about the blast yesterday than anything. Has all his news crews talking about it and trying to keep up with information.”

"Hmm..." He taps his mug. "I suppose that'll last for a few days at least." He exhales and leans back, pulling his shoes up onto the chair and sipping his coffee. "You'd think the King would simply tell his daughter to not look for me if he were so worried."

“Hmmm. I wouldn’t know why he doesn’t. I’m not the King.” She shrugs a touch, moving to sip at her mug. “...If the time comes where he does want you dead, the least I can do is offer an emergency bunker. The same one I use for the Purges every year.”

"I couldn't...." He looks at her over his knees, feeling small at the look he gives her. "He'd find me, Rosie. And then he'd realize that you helped me. I'd rather keep you out of this as much as possible."

“Can’t just stand by and watch my friend get murdered by the Devil, either, darling.” She gives him a soft grin, a slight attempt at humor.

He chuckles lightly. "Aw. I'm your friend? I'm blushing." He shifts in his seat and crosses his legs. "Thank you, Rosie. I don't say that enough."

“You’re welcome, dear. What else are friends for, after all?” She chuckles a touch, glancing down at their cups of coffee before tilting her head. “Have you eaten yet, dear? We could get breakfast down at the café. My treat.”

"Ah..." He thinks about it for a moment, unsure at his own hesitancy, and then nods. "Yeah. Sure. Sounds great. Um, you still have that box I gave you a while back as well, right?"

She blinks, then softly nods, moving to stand up. “Yes, of course. Should I go get it for you?”

“Right, right, of course. One moment. I kept it in my quarters.” She moves to walk around a corner of the office, and there’s the sound of a door opening and closing. Silence fills the air for a few moments.

He glugs down the rest of his coffee and sets his mug on the desk in front of him before leaning his head back and taking a deep breath. Well. He has to admit that this is going much better than he had anticipated. Rosie hadn't decided to simply march up to the Palace gates and give Lucifer a solid uppercut. And she isn't asking all too many invasive questions.

Perhaps the threat of someone as unknowably powerful as the Devil was enough to quell even her own fierce tenacity. Either way, the fact that she proved she was willing to help him at all should things go south was touching, to say the least. Aside from Niffty, he can’t really think of any demon he’s met that’s just...cared so much. Niffty is one thing; she’s a poor soul, a new one that just barely reached adulthood, one that still has her humanity and compassion and seems to not belong here at all. Rosie...Rosie is a known killer, a monster, a murderer of at least 50 people, and those were just the _known_ cases that were proven to be her at all. He could even recall her joking about it one time, how she had remarked that “she had thought there were more than that” and “she must have gotten lazy.” She deserves to be here, and yet she cared so much. For _him_ of all demons.

Maybe the irregular sleep is getting to him. He's usually not so easily touched or emotional or anything along those lines. He supposes it could be worse. He straightens his legs and stands up, yawning and arching his arms over his head. Better to keep moving than to stay sitting.

There was the sound of the door opening and closing again, and Rosie soon appeared back around the corner, holding up a large red fabric box with a heavy lock on it her pinky finger holding up the key. “This is it, right?”

"Yes, that looks right. Thank you." He takes the box and key as she hands it to him, merely pocketing the key and tucking the box under his arm. "I'll see about having some after some food. My stomach is still a bit... on edge from yesterday." He smiles widely at her. "So, breakfast. I'm assuming you don't want to head down in that." He points at her nightgown.

She rolls her eyes and moves to flap a hand, walking to the other side of her desk to put on a pair of fluffy white slippers. “Oh, it’s not like I haven’t gone down there to eat in this before. I’m the head of the whole complex, what are they going to say? If I truly wanted to, I could walk right down there, naked as a baby’s bottom, and they’d still serve me up my daily breakfast without even so much as blinking.”

He flushes at that and quickly looks away from her. "Please don't do that. I'd rather not see the news headlines." Much less see his closest friend naked. Hell's reporters would _definitely_ take photos. One of the many reasons he dislikes cameras.

“Oh, I’m _joking_ , darling! It’s a joke! A goof!” She playfully gives one of his ears a flick as she walks by, smiling now, flashing all her teeth. “You really need a laugh today, don’t you?”

"Everyone needs a laugh sometime." He rolls his eyes and ducks away as she flicks him, chuckling all the while. He follows her to the door. "By the way, I meant to tell you, I think the charm you put on my jacket has worn out. Would explain the sustained damage."

“Yes, yes, I suppose that would make sense. Before we head to the cafe, we could drop it off at one of the tailor shops? See if it can get repaired?” She glances back toward him as they exit her office, walking down the hall.

"I certainly won't argue with that, especially if they're open this early." He chuckles at the thought. "Do you still have the same tailors? From way back when? This one is authentic thirties material, you know. And I like being stingy." His smile grows, showing the jest, and he chuckles again.

“Ohoho...Yes, yes, I’m sure we have the same old outdated cloth material that your suit’s made out of, dear.” She chuckles, rolling her eyes to show that it also was a jest, smirking to herself. “We could always find you a new coat to wear, you know.”

" _No_." His eyes go wide, comically offended. "That would be a travesty! A horror! I don't think I'd make it through the day if such a thing were to happen." He brings the back of his hand to his forehead for extra drama.

“Darling, you know it must one day come to pass. That suit will get torn to ribbons one day and even _I_ won’t be able to repair it!” She makes a move as if she was clutching a necklace of pearls around her neck, as if she was also aghast by the thought.

"Pff, blasphemy of the highest order!" He waves a hand dismissively. "There's nothing you can't fix, and I know that first hand."

“It’s not like I can just rebuild your coat out of a pile of _ashes_ , dear.” She rolls her eyes ever so slightly, still keeping her smile even as she moves to press the button to the elevator. “I’m not a miracle worker, as much as I like to boast.”

"That's assuming I'd let my coat burn to ash in totality while I'm still alive." He smirks, crossing his arms behind his back. "And while I may not look it, I _am_ a fire fiend."

“Mhm. Somehow I have my doubts, dear.” She steps into the elevator with a slight chuckle. “I swear, one of these days, you are going to get somehow killed from being lit on fire. Mostly by playing with it, as the saying goes.”

"Oh, ye of little faith." He chuckles and steps in after her. "I certainly am a destructive one when it comes down to it, though. I'll give you that one."

“Dare I say you might have a talent for it, my dear.”

•••

They continue talking for a few more hours after that, during which Alastor manages to slug down a few more coffees amidst their mutual banter. Less than an hour later, he had slipped inside Loralai's and Jasmine's apartment complex and followed a few subtle markers he recognizes as Pentious's and boards a tram hidden under the building. There's plenty of people on board, almost shoulder to shoulder for the morning commute, and he finds himself standing and clinging to one of the plastic hoops, clutching his red case in his other arm. He tries to ignore the idle chatter that hovers about him from the other passengers. He couldn’t exactly see Jasmine and Loralai themselves on this particular commute, though he had to guess that it was either their day off or they simply came into the base earlier than he did, which was enough to make him just a little bit at ease. It gave him longer to try to rationalize with himself about why he was even here in the first place, because in all honesty, he didn’t exactly know. He had contemplated simply just going home and resting after he had left Rosie to attend to her duties at the Emporium, had contemplated simply sitting down and taking a breather to try and rationalize everything that’s happened, but just the notion of it was enough to make him wince with discomfort, with some odd _revulsion_. 

Sitting down and doing nothing simply sounds horrid to him. It's all too easy, too simple, too _boring_ and he'd rather do anything than be bored, even if he had no idea what he was actually doing to begin with. He knows that he eventually has to tell Pentious everything, to let him in on the whole entire issue regarding Lucifer, but he isn't sure how to broach the topic. But he does want to see him, at least to talk about something. Anything. He isn't entirely sure why, but he's running with it at the moment. He lets his eyes stray to that windows in an attempt to catch a glimpse of all those ships as the tram flies itself through the hangar bay, to see those intricate golden markings of snakes wrapping themselves around the beams, to see the firepower that Pentious himself had amassed and wielded with such a careful ferocity. To think that he had once almost conquered the world with nothing more than 5 ships; the amount of ships he had now would’ve been enough to all but wipe every single civilization off of the map.

He shifts slightly as he eyes it all, considering the implications and trying to run the numbers for it all. No doubt Pentious had gone through dozens of simulations as well, trying to figure out if his attempts on Earth could be grafted to Hell, what needed to change, what could stay, how differently he'd have to operate with the influx of magic down here. He vaguely recalls some comic he had read as a child, something sci-fi related, which had shown airships with - what was it? Shields of some kind around them. If Pentious could create a beam of magic like the one he had fired yesterday, then certainly he'd be able to make such a thing for his ships, right? Maybe he'd ask about that.

Hm. Come to think of it, wasn’t there also a few more things he had wanted to ask Pentious before? Yes, yes, there was, he was remembering now. He feels his smile brighten a touch as it all clicks into place. Yes, that’s it, that’s what his excuse would be; an interview. An interview for all his questions that he had after reading that book. Perfect. Outstanding. It wasn’t even a lie. It was the perfect cover up. The tram coasts to a stop and the doors open to a cacophony of sounds and noises. He glances down at his coat as he walks out with the crowd, toward the elevators, and considers the possibility of using a little magic to snag that King Cobra book from his desk. It wouldn't expend _too much_ energy, would it? There's a few moments where he's waiting in line, and then he's crammed into the back of the elevator, trying his damnedest to keep from being touched.

To everyone else, there wasn’t anything that had changed, aside from the fact that one moment his hands were empty, and then the next, they weren’t, his hands clutching some tome wrapped in a protective plastic covering, a rubber band tying it all down and keeping it together. No one even so much as glanced at him, most of them looking tired and in some need of coffee, the elevator stopping once or twice to let a good chunk of the crowd exit into District E or F, though there is one or two button pushes that has the elevator slide back up to A. Alastor waits patiently for his turn, for the elevator to be empty, before walking over and pressing the button he knew would take him down to Pent’s office, already letting a slightly more excited smile start to slide over his lips. This would be interesting.

He wonders how much Pentious knows about King Cobra, given the man had only become famous after Pentious’s demise. He wouldn’t be surprised if he knew _of_ King Cobra, at the least. News does trickle down into Hell over time, and Pentious had been here for a long while. The elevator dings before he can finish the thought, opening to the short hallway and then to the elaborately decorated office, and he steps inside, glancing about before his eyes land on the desk, covered with paperwork and diagrams and lettering that may have been large but is entirely incomprehensible to his own eyes. Maybe he’s still waking up, despite all the coffee. Or maybe it hadn’t kicked in yet. His eyes find their way to Pentious last, brows raising as he finds the man staring at him, the eye of his hat seemingly undecided between annoyance and maybe some form of curiosity. Whatever it is, it leaves the man silent, though perhaps not speechless. Alastor gets the feeling the air of the room isn’t as quiet as it first seems.

He hadn’t quite thought of the first words he would say, or how _precisely_ he wanted to explain things. How does one explain anything regarding the King of Hell to an Overlord, after all? Especially someone so historically ruthless as Sir Pentious. That isn’t even getting to the clear paleness of his face, or the bags under his eyes, or even the faint bruises that webbed around his right eye in particular. Or his sudden wardrobe change. He hadn’t been in a full suit in front of Pentious yet. It must seem deliberate to the man, rather than coincidental.

He spruces up his smile, arms clutched behind him, poorly hiding his suitcase and mostly hiding his book, and wanders toward the chairs in front of the desk. “Lovely morning we’re having, Sir! Witnessed a bomb drop from an airship on my way here. Absolutely beautiful thing. Any story behind it, or simply business as usual?” He stays standing even as he reaches the chairs.

It took Pentious a couple of moments to respond, his hood idly twitching upwards as his expression continues to border on incredulous and confused, his brow raised while the other one furrows, his tail flicking from behind his desk even as Alastor strides right up to the chairs. His eyes all seem to flick up and down, up and down, to look him over, to examine him from head to toe, and after a few seconds of silence, Pentious slowly extends a slender, sharp claw to point toward his direction, and his expression shifts into full on confusion. “..What are you doing here?”

"Hm?" He blinks as if processing the question, then laughs softly. "Oh, right, Nora filled you in. I merely wanted to come by and make sure the band-aid was completely ripped off." He shifts and takes a seat, setting his briefcase in his lap - book tucked under it - and leans back. "The plan was to do this at a later date, but I honestly get restless when things aren't crossed off the list, even more so when I'm not doing anything, so-" He shrugs simply. "I'm here to talk. Nothing more or less."

“...You’re here to...talk? When you’re supposed to be out on ssssick leave?” Pentious was continuing to stare at him with a look of utter confusion, one that was starting to verge on annoyance. “You know you can’t _sssstay_ here, Alastor. You’re not sssssupposed to be here at all.”

“I know, and I apologize for the sudden visit and interruption.” Alastor holds up a hand, looking aside at that. One of his ears twitches. “I merely wanted to get ahead of it. It being a... particularly sensitive subject Nora has recently become privy to regarding my past.” He looks back to Pentious, pulling his hand back in and calmly settling it in his lap again. “You’re my employer and Nora is my colleague. I asked her to lie to you and I shouldn’t have. I panicked and I’d like the chance to clear the air, if you’d let me.”

Pentious’s confusion is washed away by shock, and that actually gets his hood to twitch open, not entirely, but just enough for the inside to be visible. He says nothing, but after a moment, his brow slowly furrows, and his eyes narrow a touch, tail giving a flick as he slowly laces his talons together. “...Go on.”

He takes a deep breath. “There was a period of time in my life here in Hell where I became particularly acquainted with Lucifer. _The_ Lucifer. I was - well, I, er...” He trills his nails nervously and lets out a small huff, grinning widely but tiredly. “I had an affair with him.”

 _That_ was enough to get that hood snapping wide open, was enough to have Pentious’s jaw drop ever so slightly, the hat on top of his head having it’s eye widen almost _comically_ large, and for a second, there was nothing but that singular look of pure unexpected shock. Then, after a moment, Pentious makes a motion not unlike shaking his head, and his hood falls back down, falls closed, and he moves to clear his throat a touch. “Er, pardon me. I wasn’t...expecting that.” He shifts a bit as he adjusts his bow tie, eyes darting all around for a few seconds, his tail flicking once more, before he finally laces his claws again, eyes narrowing a bit. “You had...an _affair_ , with the _devil_?”

Alastor waits calmly for him to collect himself, chuckling softly as Pentious finishes speaking. “It was more of a fling, more... not exactly...” He exhales and rolls his eyes at himself. “It was decades ago, ended poorly, and, as far as I’m aware, we hate each other for it. I’ve cut all my ties with him since and I haven’t seen or spoken with him at all. Well, until yesterday, that is.”

“Hate each other?” That gets a more pronounced tail flick, and the man tilts his head. “Surprised you aren’t dead where you stand, then. Not many people tend to lasssst when they draw the man’s fury. Though that does make me a touch curiousssss as to what _you_ did to anger him so enough to _hate_ you.”

“I...” He blinks at him and looks away. “I’d rather not discuss it, if that’s alright with you. I can promise that it won’t impact your business, and if it does, then I’ll find a way to handle it myself.” He exhales and shifts in his seat. “I merely wanted to tell you since he scried me last night. He sounded rather upset about his daughter learning that I exist.” He rolls his eyes at that.

Pentious seems to make no show of disappointment at Alastor refusal to talk in better detail about the event, instead leaning back on his haunches ever so slightly, his tongue flickering out as he does so. “Upssset, you say?” He glances the man over for a moment, and his gaze seems to linger. “...Isss that what happened to your eye?”

“That visible?” He chuckles shortly. “I usually wear a monocle, but I failed to retrieve it after Valentino’s goons snatched me. Lucifer must have gotten hold of it somehow and used it for scrying. That much power concentrated in such a small area...” He waves his hands as if the calculations should be obvious. “Adverse effects to the sinner’s body.”

“Mmm. Sssso you aren’t _sick_ , but you _are_ still in no condition to be anywhere near here.” His head tilts a touch, and after a moment of silence, he seems to come to a decision. “..Why don’t you come with me? You ssssaid you wanted to talk, and I need to go tend to thingssss within my home. Well, _one_ of them, anyhow. Wouldn’t do to have you walk around Hell’sssss streets looking as if you copped a mouse, now would it?”

Alastor tilts his head, straightening in his chair. "Go with you... to one of your homes?" His eyes widen as that fully registers. "Oh, I - I really _shouldn't_. I wouldn't want to bother you, and I promise that I'm entirely fit to move about Hell without a problem."

“Pleasssse, it’s no bother at all. I always enjoy ssssseeing a few more gawking faces around the place to really liven it up, as it were. Makesss me feel a bit more proud of the architecture.” He seems to smirk a touch at that, now adjusting his bow tie a bit more smugly. “That, and if you need to talk, it will lead to far less interruptions.” He pauses, his grin dropping for a moment, seeming to reconsider those words with a soft grimace, before the smile comes back. “Well, far lessss interruptions that I can’t shoot to make them go away.”

Alastor chuckles softly, though he doesn't quite catch his meaning. "If you absolutely insist. I suppose I wouldn't mind the conversation myself..." He glances aside, masking it as looking over the notes on Pentious's desk. "Could you tell Nora to inform Niffty? I left the house before she woke up, and I'd hate to have an angry nurse when I get back."

“Of course.” His hood simply flares up once again, his eyes seeming to start glowing, and for a moment, the man’s pupils seemed to dim a touch, to grow ever so slightly less focused, to grow a bit more clouded. Almost as if he was stuck in some sort of daydream. Telepathy. So much more different to be underneath it’s spell than to cast it. He can almost feel the magic, sympathetically, through the snake on his own wrist. A whisper of it, rather than the typical, almost tangible feel of someone else's energy. His eye throbs ever so slightly as he waits.

Finally, after a moment or two of silence, Pentious blinks firmly, and the glow fades as his hood falls back down into that seamless wave of perfect hair, the man flashing a grin as he moves to stand from his desk, his coils shifting as he does so. “Nora’s been informed and she’ll make sure to go and tell her the fact that you’re out and about. I doubt that will sssave you from a ssscolding, though.” He chuckles softly at the little quip.

"Oh, I'm certain." He sighs softly. "I've never been a good patient. Doctors make me nervous." He watches Pentious for a moment. "Are you sure you want me at your home?"

“Do you promissssse to not burn the whole place down the moment you sssstep through the door?” Pentious raises an amused brow, and he moves to slither away from the desk, not toward the elevator, but further into the office, towards a door that he moved to fish out a key for within one of his coat pockets.

"I - yes?" He furrows his brows, standing and walking toward him. "I may be a bit on the chaotic side, but I fancy myself a close friend to fire. Why? Have the fates decided to curse you with burning houses down here?"

Pentious makes a small noise that sounds like the combination of a scoff and a snort, and he glances back toward him even as he moves to unlock the door with the key. “I’m _joking_ , Alassstor. I’m trying to _joke_ with you. Am I really that bad? Do I need to freshen up on punssss? Should I ssstart reading from the pages of a joke book?” His tongue flickers as he moves to turn around, pushing open the door to reveal a hallway, clad in that same familiar snake-pattern paint, one leading to a door further down while the other one leads to a door on the right.

"Ah, no, my fault on that one. I was joking." He chuckles again, almost self-consciously. "I'm definitely coming off a bit flat today. You aren't the first to mention it. Puns would be nice, though." He smirks at him and then peers into the hall. "You like your secret tunnels, don't you?"

“Thisss one isn’t quite so much a secret when it’s behind a _door_ , now is it?” He chuckles a touch, moving to slither down the hall before moving toward the door on the right, which was also closed. “Admittedly, there isn’t much to see. One door leads to my private quarters, and the other leads to an elevator that goes sssstraight upwards. I have a car waiting for us there that will take us into the city, you see. Much more dissscreet.”

"Huh." Alastor follows, taking that in as he glances around the hall. "I didn't think you'd ever sleep here, but... I suppose that makes sense somehow. Inventions don't happen overnight, after all. Most of the time."

“Oh, trusssst me when I say that they most certainly don’t. Speaking of which..” He comes to a stop at the door, which actually appears the be the same sort of model of the doors that line the elevator shaft. He presses a button on the side, and the doors open up, Pentious slithering inside, taking a moment to coil himself up properly, to allow for room. “I might need to take a few measssurements for a new piece I’m working on.”

Alastor moves inside after him, finding a comfortable corner and sticking to it. He raises a brow curiously. "Measurements? Body measurements? What for?" He shifts his suitcase in his fingers, some idle energy trying to work itself out of him.

“Nothing too invasive, merely taking measurements of the wrist. Remember how you requesssted a machine from me that would help hide your magical ssssignature from the rest of Hell?” He presses a button on the interior of the elevator, and the door closes, the machine jerking ever so softly before starting to rise up.

"Oh, right." His ears perk and he grins a bit more widely. "Feels like ages ago that you even mentioned it." He chuckles and shifts his hands in front of himself, leaning back against the wall and letting his case and book bump against his knees. "I don't think I'll ever quite understand how your mind manages to come up with solutions to things like that. The mind of an inventor is... quite intriguing to me."

“Intriguing, you ssssay?” He seems to smirk at that, exposing all of his fangs, his hood twitching. “How sssso?”

“To put it simply, you seem to enjoy improving things, building on the pre-existing to solve problems that not everyone even notices.” He chuckles softly, raising a brow and watching his expression. “I, on the other hand, tend to merely work with the tools at my disposal to try and solve problems, even if it becomes rather convoluted. Two different forms of creativity and efficiency.”

“Heheh. I suppose that’s quite the way of putting it, to be sure. Did you know that, in my time, they didn’t even have a concept of flying machines, yet? No way to envision being able to soar through the air, no way to imagine being up in the sky like a bird would. It wasn’t quite a _problem_ at the time, no one was _aching_ to get off the ground and see the sights of the world below quite yet, but I went and made that concept a reality. And no one even _thanked me_ , not one metal or badge of honor, just nothing but _the sssscreams_. The nerve of sssssome people, Alassstor.” His voice is thick with mirth, and he seems to chortle to himself, tail idly thumping against the floor.

He smirks wider at that, showing off his own fangs. "I can imagine. Having such a terrifying list of atrocities to your name made people scared of everything you touched. Still does, to an extent." He glances at the elevator level. There's more numbers and letters than the usual elevators. "Have I told you how I researched you when I was alive?"

“I don’t believe you have, no. You did mention a brick being thrown through your window, I believe.” His tail flicks, and he glances at him. “But pleasssse. Do go on.”

He can't help but feel a little flattered, being asked about his own work. "Well, for starters, you aren't an easy target for investigative research, I can tell you that much. I almost got arrested for saying your name too many times." He says it like it's a badge of honor, mostly because it is in a lot of ways.

“Oh, really?” That gets his good to twitch upwards, and he seems to chortle again at that, his eyes actually closing for a moment. “Do they _really_ fear me that much up there? Even when I’m dead and gone?”

"I think they fear your ideas a bit more than anything else." He chuckles at the thought and, after a short moment, holds up his book. The gold leaf glimmers in the light, showing off the spine and the serpentine imagery. " _The Accurate Account of the Life of the Man Known as Sir Pentious, Written by KC._ " He holds it out to him. "I imagine you're aware of the man known as King Cobra?"

Pentious seems to blink at the sight of the book, staring at it for a moment, before moving to take it, his claws idly running over the cover and tracing the lettering. “...A touch, yesss. Some fanatic anarchist that tried to lead a revolution off the backbone of the shattered remainssss of my organization...”

"A fanatic anarchist?" He raises a brow, chuckling lowly. "He was perhaps the most well known and well spoken, anonymous, anti-capitalist individual who claimed the entirety of the world organized a conspiracy against you. Hiding your past, slandering your name, revoking credit from inventions you yourself had a hand in make, if not made solely by your own hands." He shows off his fangs again. "It's an interesting read. I meant to ask you about it yesterday, but we were interrupted by Europe."

“Mm. I sssee. What exactly were you going to ask me? I’ve never seen a book of his before. I didn’t even _know_ he wrote a book, much lesssss about _me_.” His tail twitches idly, but he seems to refrain from flipping though it for now.

"Yes, well... He wrote it the decade he was assassinated. Could barely get anything printed, from what I've heard. Had to do it by gunpoint! Haha! But even then, the government stole them and hid them away." He sobers, watching as Pentious doesn't open the book. "It's a loan from Rosie's library. I've read it all myself, but if you'd like to peruse it for a while, I'm happy to oblige. As for what I wanted to ask of you..." The elevator dings and he leans toward him. "Were you really the first person to create a working radio?"

That gets Pentious to blink, even as the doors to the elevator open, showing off what looks to be a simple garage interior, though much more clean and more sleek, the metal frame that covered the door looking to be less like a foldable sheet and more like a solid wall, the walls again lined with that same snake-like scale pattern, the floor being that of solid grey concrete. He moves to slither into the garage itself, tucking the book under his arm as he moves to pull out a ring of keys from his coat. “How on earth did you know about _that_?”

“So you _did_ invent the radio!” Alastor trots out after him, eyes wide and ears sharp. “Haha! Oh, I want to kick history into next week. But it’s in the book!” He points at Pentious’s other hand. “Fairly early on, admittedly. There’s even pictures! Photographs, rather. You were... twenty-five years old, working with James Clerk Maxwell, known for his work on electromagnetic theory. 1866, nearly _thirty years_ before the dated invention by Marconi! Thirty! I-” He laughs, almost madly, shaking his head in frustration. “All the history books are wrong, and-”

He stops himself, and brings his free hand to his cheek, staring over a sleek, expertly crafted vehicle. The wheels are thin, white trimmed, with golden hubcaps. It’s wider than some of the other cars he’s seen, and a bit longer as well, but the black base and the red-orange detailing along the middle works to pull it together. The front extends, almost triangular, a cobra with curled up with its hood extended at the very tip - Pentious’s signature mark on his models. The windows are all tinted dark, melding into the black body of the car.

“Oh my berries and beeswax!” Alastor laughs, trotting a little closer to the car. “Is this your personal...? It looks just like the ones I used to see topside! A little bit of Rolls Royce, a little bit of Ford. Definitely yours, though. Haha! Straight out of the twenties but better!”

“Hehe. Impressssed, are you?” He moves to open up the front door of the car, sliding the keys into the engine to have it start up, the whole machine giving a soft rattle as the headlights flare on. But then, oddly, just below what looks to be a standard car radio with dials and buttons, appears to be a full on type-writer keyboard, with a black dome-like screen just above the radio compartment, causing the whole of the dashboard to have a large hump to it, just beside the wheel. Pentious proceeds to start tapping his claws against the keyboard, resulting in some loud, pleasing clicks, and his tail flicks as he does so. “Ah, yessss, the Transmitter, as I called it. I remember that time, yes. The time where I theorized that thunder was the result of some odd reaction that caused lightning to burst from clouds and when I went days without sleep trying to crack the ssssecrets of electromagnetism.”

Alastor chuckles at that, a few pops of static in his voice. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like to have _discovered_ something like that. I’ve lived my entire life knowing the ins and outs of radios, taking it all as mere facts of life.” He watches him click along the keys, eyes fascinatedly tracing over the inside of the vehicle. It’s just as sleek inside, perfectly clean and welcoming. “I have to thank you for helping build on that, regardless of the specific outcome at the time.”

Pentious can’t help but pause at that for a moment, his hands stilling upon the keys, but after a moment, they continue to clack. “...Thank you. You’re probably the only person to ever know ssssuch anything about my old attemptsssss at invention. And the first to ever thank me for it.”

Alastor tilts his head, surprised. “Really? Well, I suppose that makes some sense, but...” He can’t help but wonder how annoying or bitter such a thing could be. “Would you like more people to know? At least, down in Hell that is? I forget if I’ve mentioned it before, but I run a rather prominent radio show in my free time. I have one of the largest audiences in the City.”

"Hmm...I’m not certain. After all, I already have more than enough of a reputation as is, one that I’m proud of, as well. Sure, inventing the radio would allow my name to have a little more of a polish to it, but what issss that really worth compared to the reputation of _sssssupervillain_?” His hood seems to twitch a touch at that, and he pulls open the back door of the actual car, gesturing with a hand for Alastor to sit, moving to shut the front door, oddly leaving the wheel completely empty with no one at the helm.

Alastor glances at the wheel, then shrugs to himself and slips inside. The seats are all but floating, only held aloft by thin poles. He finds his own and sits down, watching Pentious. “I suppose that’s fair. You’re more well-known for your diabolical inventions, after all.” Something about it sits awkwardly with him, and he taps the edge of his case to work some of it out. The inventor of the radio, not wanting to lay claim to such a thing? He almost feels offended on the behalf of radios everywhere. “Did you ever use them in your airships on Earth?”

“Indeed. By the time I actually got my firssssst ship in the air, I managed to crack the code of electromagnetism even further than I had before.” Pentious’s own could begin to slide into the car as he too moves to climb into the back seat next to Alastor, his coils having a surprising amount of wiggle room within the back, not looking cramped or crushed in at the least. Pentious shuts the back door, placing the book down between them as he moves to adjust his bow tie. “By then, I could project voicessss across the short distancessss that my ships could allow. It never worked across vasssst distances, but as long as my ships were close enough to my own, then I could freely give them all the orders needed.”

He smirks widely. “Which explains the coordination between your ships without any use of telegrams or signaling. Heheh. To think they tried explaining it as anything but.” Alastor rubs his chin, considering it. “Would that mean you had mobile radios within your airships? For communications between the engineers, the militia men, pilots, and so on? To streamline on-board work.”

“Essssentially, yes. One radio to reach the interiors of the ships, and the other for ship-to-ship communicationssss.” He chuckles softly, the garage door before them slowly starting to roll open, and the headlights of the car grew brighter as the engine started to rumble a bit louder.

Alastor sits a bit more upright, glancing between the still empty front seat and the hood of the car. “Is that... supposed to happen?” He looks over at Pentious. “No one’s in the driver’s seat, so why is the engine revving?”

“Can’t exactly presssssss the pedals with no legs.” The tip of his tail slides up to give a soft flick, and as the garage door slides open fully, revealing what looked to be some sort of dense forest with a clear cut dirt road ahead, the car begins to drive forward, and Alastor can see the wheels twitching steadily as the wheels begin to turn.

“Yes, but-” He leans forward, realizing that Pentious’s question did answer his question. The car wheels itself out of the garage and toward the street. His eyes widen, hands tensing as the nose nears edge of the private lot, waiting for another car to come by and t-bone them. But the car stops instead, giving the nearest car ample time to pass in front of them. He gapes as they turn out onto the road, the steering wheel shifting as if ghostly hands were guiding it. His eyes dart about looking for some other explanation to the madness. “I don’t understand. How is...?”

“Hehehe...The keyboard up on the dash issss...essentially a marker for coordinates. To guide the car where it should go. Cameras in the hood and trunk ssscan it’s surroundings to adjust itself and to watch for obssstacles. The magic of binary code issss quite the wonder, you see.” He chuckles softly to himself, folding his arms, looking quite smug.

Alastor looks back at him. “We’re moving simply based on cameras? How can it tell how far we are from the curb? What if some mad driver comes around some bend?” He cranes his head around the seat in front of him to watch as they make another turn, tensing as another car moves by them. This _had_ to be safe if Pentious is using it. But he feels more like he’s in an amusement ride than a car.

“Hehehe. You think I’ve never tesssted my equipment to make sure that it won’t crash?” Pentious tilts his head, teasingly, looking a touch more amused at how skittish Alastor was looking. “Is that the deer part of you acting up or ssssomething?”

“Ha! Oh, you wish.” Static fills his voice despite his best attempts at keeping it down and he pries himself back from the seat. “The only thing to get me like that would be a snake in the grass, I assure you.” He quirks his lips up further to show it’s in jest, glancing at him quickly before turning his eyes back to the road.

“Heheh. Well, if that’ssss the case, then let me assure you that there issss no snake in the grass this time. It’s perfectly safe, I assure you. Would I be using this at all if I wasn’t?” Pentious raises a brow ever so slightly, looking amused, a grin still on his face.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Somehow hearing Pentious echo his own thoughts calms him somewhat. His eyes find their way back to the steering wheel, to the stick shift and pedals. “I’d ask why such a thing isn’t on the market, but I think I can imagine _precisely_ why.” He chuckles. “How strange...”

“Oh, pleasssse. As if I’d let anyone get their handssss on my technology. That’s practically _asssking_ people to go about tinkering around with it and possssibly reverse engineering it. Too much rissssk.” He shakes his head softly.

“Don’t you sell cars, though?” He leans back and watches Pentious. “Or am I thinking wrong? I don’t quite keep track of brand names, if I’m being honest.”

“Not the kind that _drive on their own._ That’ssss the key difference. Let those fools drive themselvessss, if they really want to have their own cars so badly.” He smirks a bit, tail flicking ever so slightly as he offers a shrug.

Alastor chuckles at that, sagging into his seat a bit as the last of his anxiety wears away. "That definitely sounds more like you." He looks out the window, scanning over the houses and shops as they pass them by. He purses his lips and turns back to Pentious. "Are you sure you want me at your house? I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I... find myself confused given I'm such a new recruit. Unless this isn't particularly out of the norm for others to be brought to your personal elevator, into your personal car, and then driven to your personal estate?"

“Would you currently be in my perssssonal car if I _didn’t_ want you in my perssssonal estate? You’re already proving to be more of a pain in the neck than _mossst_ of my employees so far, so I suppose you could see this as a sign that you’re quite the outlier from how I normally treat recruitsss.” He chuckles a bit at his own quip, shaking his head to indicate it was more or less in jest. “Bessssides, you’re technically off duty, are you not? Therefor, asss for right now, I’m not your bossss. Merely another demon, as it were.”

He blinks at that, then nods a little. "I suppose that checks out." He shrugs and leans his head back, closing his eyes. "Well! If any Fallen Angel decides to go rooting around in my noggin, feel free to blindfold me and bind my arms. As far as I know, Lucifer still has my monocle. Best to be prepared and all that."

“I’ll be ssssure to keep that in mind. I’ll try to not break any ribsss.” His tail gives a soft flick, his own head turning to let his eyes glance out the window. “So, if I am to asssume, you wanted to ask me questions about my earlier inventions? Judging by the fact you brought a _biography_ and what not.” He looks a touch amused at that. “I dare call mysssself flattered.”

"To be honest, I mostly wanted to hear about radios, but I'd happily discuss anything else you've made in your career." Alastor chuckles without opening his eyes. "I've always wondered how you took out all those trains though."

“Ever heard of a mortar shell?”

"A mortar shell?" He peeks at him. "Explosive ammunitions used predominantly for indirect fire? Certainly." He smirks. "I had to run through them when I was eighteen. Quite the brutal things."

“Think of one of those hitting the side of a train engine except the shells were twice as large and had a bigger explosion.” His grin took on much more of a sadistic tone this time.

He stares at him, imagining it in his mind. He could recall the sights and sounds and taste of dirt from the shells hitting the ground near him, the vibrations in his soles that felt like the ground had entirely destabilized. He doubles that, adds more overturned soil, more rocks, adds warped metal, and his brows slowly raise closer and closer to his hairline. "By Jove..." He laughs. "How much of the trains were left on average?"

“Mmm...” He seems to purse his lips at that, tilting his head as his eyes glance off into the distance. “...Ussssually, the engine would be completely totaled, crumpled and shredded, as if a bullet were to slice itself through a beer can. If the train were to be hit directly, the whole thing would be ssssent flying through the air, toppling over and over like a boulder that was rolling and tumbling down a hill until it finally losssst momentum and crashed. Not many ssssurvived those particular crashes, and if they did, they were either already on death’s door or were too injured to be kept alive. The onessss that _weren’t_ directly hit often just got launched off of the tracks as they were blown to piecessss. They more...ssskidded then tumbled. More survivors often came with those, and those ones we either shot, or took hossstage.”

Alastor feels his grin spread further and further along his face as he catches the sadistic, pleased look on Pentious’s face. It was as if he were recalling a perfect spring morning rather than the horrid deaths of his victims. “How utterly terrifying that must have been. You had a habit of killing the hostages, correct? Barely ever left anyone alive who could potentially identify you. That’s something we have in common.” He turns in his seat, sitting in it sideways to look at him fully. “From all that I’ve read and seen of you, you seem to revel in the chaos you sew, in the terror you strike into others. It always seems to come from afar, though. How many have you killed with your own hands, rather than with an airship?”

“How many I’ve killed on my own? That’ssss like asking how many _ants_ I’ve stepped on in my lifetime!” His tail gives a soft lash, and his hood seems to quiver with sadistic delight, raising up ever so slightly, just enough for two of the four eyes that lined it’s frame to appear. “But I can tell you that mosssst of them were gunshotssss to the head. There’s something so...gratifying, about watching a body going from _alive_ to _dead_ in the sssspan of a second. In seeing those eyessss so full of life, _snuffed_ out like a candle.” He tilts his head to the side a bit. “Of courssse, I couldn’t quite see the eyes if I used one of my ssspecial bullets, but the screams of my victimssss being set on fire or having their bones melt from acid wasss more than enough to compenssssate.”

Gods above and below, this man is dangerous. It really is amazing how you can walk around Hell without a single care in the world and then have one conversation remind you who exactly shares the streets with you. Maybe Alastor should have gotten out a bit more these last few years. He chuckles. “I think you enjoy torture, if I were to guess. I only tried my hand at it a few times in life, but it’s certainly never gotten boring for me. Especially when you realize there’s so many different ways to go about it! Haha! Oh, remind me to tell you sometime about the time I kept someone awake while I dissected them. The look on their face...” He can’t help but chuckle more at the image, shoulders shaking.

“Really now?” His eyes seemed to glimmer with interest, and he rests a hand on his cheek, tilting his head as his eyes narrow, still grinning. “What exactly did you do to make that happen? Surely ssssomeone would’ve died from the shock alone upon having their entire torssso gutted open.”

“Epinephrine. Adrenaline. I had a few medical friends.” He waves a hand to put aside the details. “Besides, so long as you do it _properly_ , like a surgeon would, there’s the possibility the person _won’t_ die! It’s really the point when you start _removing_ organs and _breaking_ ribs that you have to worry about. Aside from that, clamps to stop bleeding and leaving things like the lungs and heart for last.” He giggles. “One time I went poking around someone’s brain. My only complaint would be that it took so long to get through the skull!”

“The _brain_ you say? Oooh, quite the _horrid_ way to go. Sssounds absolutely dreadful.” Somehow the man makes the sound “dreadful” sound synonymous with “delightful”, and Pent shifts a bit, now facing Alastor entirely, chuckling. “I’ll admit, my torture methodssss were a bit more...russstic than yours, but I did try to get creative once or twice. Tying a man to a tree and leaving him to be devoured by coyotessss, for example. You may think they look like dogsss, but I assure you, they can be _quite_ the vicious things. Will tear your open and eat you alive if they get the chance.” His look turns a bit more sheepish at that. “Admittedly, I was a tad nervous about them sssometimes. Always had my gun on me when I went to bed because I kept on thinking they’d ssssneak into my tent.”

“To be expected!” Alastor gives him a wide smile. “Growing up in Louisiana, you learn rather quickly to appreciate the animals around you in the same breath of being wary of them. Granted, I’ve had my fair share of tousles with gators. Coyotes... Well, I’ve seen them a few times, but only when the deer were scarce.” He snickers. “I used to leave the remains of my victims in the woods. One time a cougar got them. Caused such a stir.”

“Cougarsss, hm? Never really encountered _thossse_ from what I can recall. Although I think one of our horssses might’ve gotten eaten by one; it had ran away, and the only thing we found the next day was it’s hollowed out corpse with the ssssaddle all but ruined. Torn to pieces.” His hood twitches, and he snaps his fingers, his grin coming back to full force. “Ah, yes, horses. Horses were another way to go about _torturing_ the real sssscum that always tried to trail after me and put a bullet in my head. Ever heard of what happens when you tie a man’s limbssss to teams of sled dogs and yell “mush?”

He raises his brows. “Is it something along the lines of dislocation, tearing, and lots of screaming?”

Pentious’s grin becomes almost downright _vicious_ , leaning forward ever so slightly as his hood spreads and his tongue _flickers_ between those large, sharp fangs. “More like the limbsssss get torn from the body. Now...imagine what _horssses_ could do?”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Well, there _is_ a reason cars are measured by horse power.” He leans his head in his hand. “You’re quite the interesting man, Sir Pentious. Quite the interesting man indeed.”

“Would a boring man sssstrive to conquer the world?” He raises a brow ever so slightly, crossing his arms, tail flicking back and forth smugly.

“Plenty of boring men try to conquer the world.” Alastor smirks at him, tilting his head forward as if in a soft bow. “But most don’t get anywhere close.”

“Hmm.” Pentious’s own grin seems to stretch, and he chuckles softly. “Ohh, if you had lived in my time, I think we would’ve gotten along quite _sssplendidly_. You would’ve made quite a home for yourself in my crew, I’m sure.”

“Hyperbole, I’m sure.” Alastor chuckles in return, flattered. “I certainly wouldn’t have minded the company, though.”

“I take it you’re much more of a loner type? I can only assssume since you were taking on Valentino’s forces all by yourself.” He moves to lean back a touch, his hood starting to deflate, his tail continuing to flick back and forth, slowly.

“Guilty as charged!” He shrugs delicately. “I’ll admit that it can be a bit of a mortal flaw of mine, but I prefer working on my own. As the saying goes, _If you want something done right, do it yourself.”_

“Mm.” He seems to hum at that, and his tongue flickers out thoughtfully. “I ssssuppose I can’t fault you for that. If you really want to be technical, I am doing what I do bessst on my own this time. It feels...strange. But not unwelcome.”

“Hm.” It takes a moment for him to register what he means, and then it dawns on him. The inner circle on Earth hasn’t been replicated in Hell. He leans toward Pentious as if sharing some illicit secret. “I can’t say how it is for you personally, but I can definitely vouch for the public eye. It shows that you’re stronger here in Hell than you ever were on Earth, and that you’re even more efficient and better structured as well.” He leans back again. “And in a more personal way, it shows a strength few choose to wield.”

“...You think so?” He tilts his head ever so slightly, staring at him now with a look that was akin to fascination and intrigue.

“Of course I do.” He laughs softly, seemingly more genuine. “Few are willing to change their ways, not only in ideals but especially with regards to their _methods_ . And it’s difficult to change habits! Especially after death, if you ask me. And I say that as someone who’s continued on the exact same career path in the exact same manner that I did on Earth. There’s may be some strength in being able to stay your own course, but there’s more in knowing when _not to._ Making the difficult decisions despite your comforts, relearning tactics from the physical to the social to the political - there’s an effort there most wouldn’t take, myself included. And in that effort, strength.”

“Hm.” His smile starts to grow back, and he chuckles softly, moving to give his shoulder a soft pat. “Thank you for that stellar input, Alasstor. I see now why you decided to be in the radio business.”

He chuckles and brings a hand to his chest, allowing the pat. “Why, thank you, my dear! I’ve always had a certain way with words.”

“Clearly. And you wield that ssssilver tongue quite expertly if I do say so myself.” His own tongue flickers out, as if to indicate that he too possessed a cunning mind with a talent for words. There was a soft pause as the car seemed to slowly ebb to a stop in front of a pair of solid black gates, before the gates themselves begin to open, and Pentious hums softly to himself. “Here we are, Alassstor. My personal estate. One of them, anyway.”

Alastor looks forward, shifting in his seat again, and leans forward, eyes widening slowly as he takes in the grounds. It’s a mansion more than a simple home, too many windows to count, clearly European in design. It almost looks like a castle in the way parts of it taper into points, the way hell rose hedges hug near the windows, ivy clinging to sections of the wall - wall which did appear to be some kind of stone masonry. There’s a fountain and a roundabout, as well as a garage that’s separate from the main house. There’s a small pathway to the back of the house, hinting at something he couldn’t see yet. Maybe a pool? Maybe a garden? The pavement turns to cobblestone as the car trudges toward the mansion.

“And here I was thinking _I_ had a nice house.” He huffs out a laugh. “It seems well-kept. Is this your usual, or...?”

“It’s the one I ssspend the most time at, yes, seeing as it’s the one closessst to my base. It’s also where I keep my..” He trails off for a moment, before his face falls into a look of simmering annoyance of aggravation, and he runs a hand down his face. “Ugh, my _sssservants_. Annoyances would be more like it.”

“Servants?” Alastor raises a brow. “You have servants?”

“Yes, and I make sure no one at the base knows that. Everyone except for Nora, but she’ssss the one who made them.” He sighs and straightens his posture, claws adjusting his bow tie. “They’re annoying, dull-headed little creatures that, frankly, shouldn’t exissst. They have no ssssoul to ssspeak of, and they lack any sort of empathy or restrain and will murder anyone I tell them to should I give them the order. They’re also dumb as rocks, completely inept, and...” His face wrinkles in pure disgust and loathing. “...perverssssse.”

Alastor’s nose wrinkles, though he can’t be a little curious about the earlier points. “So they aren’t the average demon? They’re some sort of... science experiment gone wrong? How did that happen? And if they’re as bad as you say, why haven’t you simply killed them all yet?”

He holds up one claw, then two. “One, can’t tell you, that’s classssified. Second, Nora happens to love the little cretinsss for reasons I can’t begin to fathom so she wouldn’t let me. They also happen to follow my every word and obey my word as absssolute law, so I figured they could be at _leasst_ be useful enough to have as servants around my estates.” At this, a cruel little grin lifts up his lips. “Bessssides, if they truly draw my ire, I can simply ssslaughter them where they stand and replace them with another. They’re _very_ easy to masss produce.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued by that last part, and he narrows his eyes playfully. “I suppose I’ll have to do some investigative reporting to figure out where they come from then.” He chuckles at himself. “I’m surprised Nora would care for them, though. It’s not every day you hear that the Whip Wraith has a softer side to her.”

“She thinkssss they’re adorable and precioussss, and I don’t think the fact that she technically had a hand in creating them is helping mattersss.” The car soon pulls in front of the stairs of the mansion’s entrance, and Pentious sighs as he moves to pull open the car door and step out. “You _are_ free to talk to them, if you so choose, just don’t expect to get any lengthy philosophical conversssations about Shakespeare out of them.”

“Oh, _darn_. I was hoping to discuss my favorite plays.” He makes sure his tone is more sarcastic than he intends, following him out of the car with his case in tow. “Do you have any favorites from him?"

“Frankly, I thought his way of writing was overly pretentious and boring. I only read his plays once when I was 15 and I promptly tossed them out because I couldn’t make hide nor hair of what he was trying to say.” His tail flicks as he begins to climbs the stairs, arms folded behind his back.

"Really? Hm. I'll make sure to quote him plenty then." He trots up after him, giving him a quick smirk before gazing around at the building. "I definitely find him dramatic, but I appreciate that about him rather than hold it against him."

“Trusssst me when I say I’m all for _dramatics,_ but if you sacrifice efficiency, or in this cassse, _legibility,_ then you will absssolutely, indisputably, _fail_ in whatever goal you seek to accomplish.” He pauses to adjust his bow tie. “At least, that’s how I see it.”

"If I may critique my so gracious host," Alastor says, more fangs adding to his smile, "I think you're lacking the historical context. People at the time spoke an entirely different version of English. Not to mention the social customs of _how_ to speak. And the fact that Shakespeare hid puns within his work with the specific intent to either play with the mind of the audience or circumvent said social rules. Occasionally to win favor with the crown, but who didn't in that day and age?"

“Hm.” He doesn’t look that convinced, his hood twitching ever so slightly, his eyes slightly half-lidded in a look of mild indifference, even as he moves to slither onto the last step. “Sssstill can’t understand the man’s damn writing.” He turns toward the door’s, grand, ornate, reaching out as if to open it up, but the jiggling of the door knob has him pause, and he seems to sigh. “Here we go again...”

Alastor raises a brow but before he can say anything, the door opens up and a pair of overgrown eggs stacked on top of each other with spindly arms and legs, each wearing a suit that mimics Pentious's, wobbles and tumbles to the floor. Luckily (or not) they land on carpet, and quickly spring up, one saluting Pentious as the other merely waves.

"Welcome back, Boss!"

"Hope you've had a good day, Boss."

The saluting one notices Alastor and gasps. "We didn't know you were bringing a _friend_ with you!"

Alastor's nose wrinkles at the way the egg says the word 'friend,' glancing at Pentious for his reaction.

Pentious’s eyes were narrowed and his tail was already trembling, as if it wanted nothing more than to bash into that egg’s fragile shell and spill it everywhere, his hood quivering ever so slightly, but after a moment, he simply starts to speak, voice firm and direct. “He’s not a friend, he’s a _guest._ Tell the otherssss that Alastor here is a _guest_ at the estate and that the expected rules for guesssts should be followed. Understood?”

"Course, Boss!" One of them darts off and Alastor catches the number 17 on their back. "Pentious brought a guest friend!"

Alastor snorts. "You weren't kidding on these little embryos having a single brain cell. Or would it technically be one cell?"

The remaining egg chuckles. "Oh, wow. Your friend is funny, Boss."

Pentious glares down at the remaining egg with a squint. “Ssssilence. Go prepare my morning coffee.” Pentious glances toward Alastor at that, raising a brow slightly. “Would you like any?”

"I've already had a few cups, but what's another on top of that, eh?" He chuckles and looks down at the egg. "Two coffees please."

"Three coffees, coming up!" The egg darts off, the number 21 on its back.

Alastor squints. "How...?"

“21 likesss to drink coffee too.” Pentious seems to drag a hand down his palm again before he moves to finally slither in through the doors. “Feel free to smash any of them if they ssstart to annoy you. Or if you’re bored, jussssst don’t stain any of the carpets.”

"No staining the carpets! Understood." He follows after him, eyeing the occasional wooden furniture in the room and the subtle scale detailing on the walls. He nudges the door closed behind him. "Are there any rooms off limits to me? Or may I wander as I please?"

“Don’t go in the basement, and if you see any metal doors or doorsss that are firmly locked from the outside, don’t go in.” He glances back toward him at that, and his eyes finally drop down to the case he’s carrying. “If I may ask, what exactly is _in_ there?”

"Medicine. Should help in case I have any snapback symptoms relating to yesterday's excitement." He raises the case and jingles it a little. "Admittedly, Nora wasn't _entirely_ lying about me being sick. Simply... not the average kind."

“...What exactly do you mean?” He frowns at him ever so slightly, turning to more properly face him.

He sighs softly and taps his wrist. "The watch you're trying to make me? For my sensitivity to magic? That sensitivity leads to a sort of chronic condition of mine. I hit snapback more frequently than others. It won't be an issue for work, so there's no reason to be concerned about it. But with Lucifer channeling his magic through my veins, the results could be..." He shrugs and tosses a hand. "I wouldn't even know."

“Hmmm...” Pentious seems to consider that, one hand moving up to hold his chin as his eyes narrow ever so slightly, tail flicking back and forth, his gaze turning to the floor. “I see...” He glances back up toward him. “Maybe...Perhapssss I could try and tinker with the watch to help..lessen the effects of your condition? It was more or less meant to be some form of cloaking device, really, but perhapsss, after a little bit of time, I could develop something new to add onto it.”

"I certainly won't stop you." He grins softly at him. "I doubt you'll manage anything, but if you want to try, go ahead. Just don't get too obsessed over it." His smirk comes back again.

Pentious then grows a thin little grin that somehow came off as both charming and also slightly sheepish. “Would assssking for blood be considered too obsessed?”

"Blood?" He crosses his arms, considering it, then shrugs. "Might as well, I suppose. I haven't a clue where hematology has gotten down here, but if it helps you, I suppose." He tilts his head at a sudden thought. "Do you have the equipment?"

“I do, actually. Nora lent it to me when her and I were still conducting research together.” He points at the case. “Want that to be taken somewhere safe or do you want to keep carrying it around?”

"I'll keep it with me if that's alright." Alastor's grip on the case tightens a bit.

“Very well, if you insist.” Pentious’s tail flicks, and after a moment, he starts to slither off toward a hallway. “I’ll be right back with the blood sample equipment, jusssst give me a moment to go and fetch what I need.”

“Of course.” Alastor glances around the hallway he’s in, seeing quite a few open doors and archways. He watches as Pentious leaves, as he turns the corner, and starts tapping his case. He could stay here, certainly. Stay in this one spot, in a building he had never so much as seen before, owned by his boss and notably secretive Overlord Sir Pentious. He spies a set of classy furniture pieces through an archway, porcelain dining sets through another, and feels his legs darting him toward a half-opened door.

He’d never been good at not doing anything.

The door leads to a large, open room, cluttered with cushy chairs and a grand piano. “Oooh!” He darts toward the piano, intent on testing it out, then pauses as he considers the noise he’ll make. Maybe another time. What else is there? His eyes dart around the room, legs bringing him close to the furniture, hands stroking over the soft fabric, and then he spies a door toward the back of the room. His grin widens and he darts toward it. He opens it to find what looks to be some sort of lounge room, almost, with a large glass window framed by fabric curtains, giving off a large view of the front lawn’s surroundings, as well as the hustle and bustle of that city outside. There was a large circular carpet on the floor, styled in the shape of the Ouroboros, along with a nearby couch and what looked to be an ornate coffee table, with a pile of at least two or three books on top of it, one already half opened, placed pages down on top of the pile. Sample decorative shelves lined the walls, but aside from a few decorative pieces of blown glass, there didn’t seem to be much of value on them.

_“It should be noted that these outlandish claims of the man known as Sir Pentious being disabled is no doubt a fallacy of sheer fantasy and little more than some desperate attempt by the villainous folk of the modern era to paint their first and foremost in a more sympathetic light. Plenty of records have spoken of the man’s public sightings as being able to fully stand up right, and even those who have survived their encounters with the man in his days of train-robbing have only spoken of how he walked himself with an air of superiority and absolute dominion. Truly no disabled person could hold themselves to such standards, both physically and figuratively, and that the idea of the world’s most vicious monster being painted in such a light is not only false, but a deadly scheme meant to illicit the feelings of pity and shame.”_

Alastor raises a brow. "Someone didn't do their research properly." He sets the book down, considering the reports from King Cobra's book. He had known plenty of veteran's who could walk but still needed wheelchairs. He walks around the table, eyeing the carpet for a moment before taking a look out at the lawn. It's almost picturesque for Hell. He shrugs and walks over to the decorative shelves. One of the glass pieces is fashioned into a swirling snake. He picks it up gingerly off of the shelf, holding it up to the light, eyes narrowing a touch as glimmering shades of color seems to catch in the thinly etched patterns of the snake’s scales, it’s fangs protruding in what was assumed to be a deadly hiss as it lay coiled around a rock. He idly rubs a thumb along the etchings, tilting the snake piece this way and that before finally setting it down as carefully as he could. He couldn’t see the price tag on it, which meant he had it either commissioned from someone else, or Pentious had actually made the piece himself; idle hobbies were something one always tended to collect the longer they stayed down here, in order to fill the time of eternity.

He shifts the figure a slight bit to fit it back into its right position before looking around the room again spotting another door. He glances back at the one he had come through. There's a very real possibility he could get lost if he goes further in without any sense of direction, but.... He could be quick. Certainly. He walks over to the door and twists the knob, humming softly to himself.

The door opened up to quite the lovely sight, and it was almost enough to make the grip Alastor had on his suitcase fumble and fall in its entirety. A massive room, filled to the brim with long, ceiling high bookshelves, the fine oak shelves holding tome upon tome, each of them arranging in colors from black, to brown, to red, to green, all of them no doubt heavily tended to, spotless of blemish and age and the many ways a book can be utterly destroyed. There were at least two floors to this library, to this collection of novella, a large dome curving across the ceiling to let in light via a window along it’s top, and the railing of a second floor, a balcony, curves above, wreathed in gold and brilliant white.

“Oh... my... Lord...” Alastor walks slowly into the room, staring up and spinning in a slow circle. There were sitting areas on both floors, little alcoves to read, though the chairs seemed mostly pushed aside or kept in corners. He can see a few doors on the upper floor, leading to other spaces yet to be explored, and he has to hold back a giddy laugh. He loves _new_ things just as much as he loves _strange_ things. He looks back down, hopping in place slightly as he tries to figure out where he wants to go first. How is this little library set up anyways? Is there any kind of catalogue? Would Pentious _need_ one? He darts over to the closest shelf to see if there’s any rhyme or reason to their positions.

“Biography, biography, biography....” Alastor mumbles to himself as he scans over the spines of the books, one finger hovering over where his eyes point. Most of these books seemed to be related to Americans who lived in the Victorian Era. John Roebling with the Brooklyn Bridge, Cyrus McCormick and the... what were they called? Reapers? Mechanical reapers, yes. Samuel Morse, for obvious reasons. “Jacob Fussell?” Alastor plucks the book out and glances over the cover. “Oh! The ice cream maker. Boring.” He slips the book back and continues down the shelf, finding more inventors. Slowly, the shelf starts focusing on generally historic figures. Presidents, cabinets, Congresspeople, writers, reporters, photographers. A strange mix, if he had anything to say on it.

He can’t help but narrow his eyes a touch as the books seem to shift again, from that of Victorian inventors, to that of more modern ones, and he could only guess that they were modern because they were names he couldn’t lay a face or a particular achievement to. “Howard Aiken, Presper Eckert, John W. Mauchly?” He idly plucks one of them out, glancing at the cover, only to find what looks to be the two men standing in front of a massive room that appears to be covered in what he vaguely remembered as computer monitors, ones similar within Pentious’s base, if he could recall. The further he walks down the shelf, the more unfamiliar names begin to appear, and with each one, it starts to become a bit more clear, and it’s enough to make him chuckle a touch. “He’s trying to track the progress of modern inventions, hm? Interesting idea for an inventor in Hell to do...” He taps his suitcase idly. Pentious did seem like the type to want to outpace competitors, even if they were from the land of the living. If he ever did fall behind on anything, Alastor would bet money that his first attempt at recreating something would be even better than the current standard, though. He moves away from the bookshelf to another one, finding more scientific sounding titles - perhaps journals or textbooks of some kind - and bounces to another one. He could look into those some other time, but he wants to see if there’s anything surprising in here first.

The books begin to shift into fictional titles, and his lips can’t help but quirk up idly in amusement upon seeing various novels that he himself had heard of, including that of _War Of The Worlds, Sherlock Holmes, Frankenstein, 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea,_ the list goes on. All of them looked to be in very well condition too, nary a scratch or tear to be seen on any of the spines. His eyes catch sight of something else, something that actually makes his ears perk straight up, feeling his eyes widen, before he feels his grin split wide open across his face, and he chuckles to himself, tilting his head to read the title as it stares back at him. _Taming of The Shrew._

“I thought you said you hate Shakespeare!” He laughs and approaches the play. The binding is well kept, just like the others, with even a bit of gold leaf here and there. _“Taming of the Shrew._ Of all the plays, I _didn’t_ think you’d choose that one. Any notes?” He slips a finger over the top and pulls, finding some resistance, and frowns, pulling harder. There’s a click as it slides toward him and stops, half the cover visible, and he lets go as he feels a slight rumble through the floorboards. “What in the-?”

His eyes widen as the bookcase sinks into the wall and then into the ground, revealing a pitch black, stone walled tunnel. He blinks a few times before stepping inside, eyeing the wooden top of the bookshelf as he crosses over it. There’s a thin strip of light overhead, not enough to illuminate anything, but enough to show a path straight ahead. The light from the library only reveals cobwebs and a pair of barrels collecting dust. Alastor walks over to them and puts his hands on his hips, looking further down the corridor.

“So the long dead, global conqueror of a demon has not only a secret base but a mansion that no one knows about. _And_ hidden doors and rooms!?” He shakes his head. “The audience would never believe this.”

Alastor takes about three steps into the corridor, the sound of his shoes clicking against what sounds to be a floor of solid stone, only to freeze when several bright lights suddenly appear on his chest, his arms, and he can even feel the heat of another light centered directly on his forehead. He instinctively freezes in place, suddenly witnessing the supposedly stone walls and floor begin to shift as large, solid black guns begin to emerge, displaying at least four barrels all lined up like that of mounted machine guns, only there was no one in sight to properly fire them, each one of these guns possessing the lights now covering his frame. They beeped, but didn’t fire yet, possibly waiting for him to make a move, or to approach further.

“Oh, you...” Alastor wants to laugh, wants to continue verbalizing his astonishment, but he gets the feeling that would make him move his head enough to set off the guns, and as much as he can take the full brunt of of shotgun pellets to the stomach and chest, he can’t live past a shot to the forehead. He’d make a horrible impression if he bled all over Pentious’s secret lairs within his first hour at his mansion. He has _manners._

He glances down at the case in his right hand, the weight suddenly making itself apparent now that he has to keep himself still. Usually keeping still is a chore for him, but somehow the threat of death by remarkably well hidden guns makes it more of a game. A waiting game, which has to be his least favorite, but still a game he could play. It’s not like Pentious _wouldn’t_ be able to find him at some point. He takes slow, shallow breaths to keep the marker on his chest level.

At least a minute goes by of standing completely still, of watching the stillness of the gun’s mounted and ready to shoot, before he hears the sound of a door opening, hears the sound of Pentious’s voice call out, slightly distant. 

“Alastor? Alastor, are you in here? If you wanted to see my library that badly, you could’ve ssssimply _asked_ me to see it!”

Alastor stays still, ears twitching at the sound of his voice. He really shouldn’t tempt fate with saying anything, but... “I thought you didn’t like Shakespeare.” He isn’t talking as loudly as before, but hopefully it’s enough for Pentious to have heard something.

“I don’t! I thought we established that by now!” There was the sound of his voice growing closer, and then, Pentious’s frame appears to the side of the shelf, and his eyes widen slightly at the sight of the open shelf, of Alastor standing there, and soon, a grin begins to appear. “..Oh, I see. You grabbed _Taming Of The Shrew,_ didn’t you?”

“Well, I just _had_ to know what kinds of notes the great Sir Pentious hid inside.” He rolls his eyes at the almost amused sound in Pentious’s voice. A locking noise echoes from the far end of the hallway and he clamps his mouth shut.

“Heheh..Of course. Rest assured when I say I despise that book wholeheartedly. Complete and utter _garbage_ in every way.” He smirks to himself and slithers over to where Alastor stood, and the lasers instantly move to train on his figure instead. But after a moment of silence, Pentious not even seeming to _twitch_ in the face of his own guns, the lasers flash green, and the guns begin to retract back into the floors and walls. He lets out a chuckle, tongue flickering out as he does so, glancing toward Alastor with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Pardon me for the extra ssssecurity. I have a lot of secret rooms that I’d rather not have thievessss stumble into.”

Alastor lets out a small sigh of relief and gives him a smirk as he straightens his already straight clothes. “Oh, please. I rather enjoyed it! The mysterious Overlord who nearly took over Earth, hiding various mysteries away in his far off mansion with the use of secret traps and... whatever kind of sensor technology that is.” He chuckles and looks squarely at Pentious. “Sounds like the beginning of a novel, if you ask me.”

“Hehe. I may have taken a few bits and pieces of inspiration here and there from a few of the novellas I’ve read over the years.” He chuckles a touch, letting his hand offer a quick pat to Alastor’s shoulder before he moves to turn around, slithering back from the way he came. “Now, how about we head to the kitchens in order to have the blood sample taken? The coffee is probably fully brewed and prepped as of now anyway, and we better get there before 21 decides to drink all three mugs.”

“Well, we can’t have that happen, now can we?” He chuckles, feeling his shoulder tingle ever so slightly from the pat and following Pentious back to the main hall. He hears a few mechanisms clicking behind him and glimpses the bookshelf settling back into place. “Another cup of coffee would do wonders, honestly.”

“I can imagine. What were you doing in my library exactly? Besides poking around in my ssssecret tunnels?” He gives him an amused glance as they enter back through the way Alastor had came.

Alastor grins widely at him. “Well, I’ve always been of the opinion that a man’s bookshelf tells quite a bit about the man himself! It’s why I always kept mine completely random and hid the ones I liked under the floorboard next to the liquor.”

“Ooh. Sssecretive, I see. Interesting. Anything you saw in there that particularly stood out? Besides that one decoy book.” His tail flickers as he begins to guide Alastor back out into the main corridor, before slithering toward another hall.

“You certainly seem to be keeping up to date on the inventions side of things, but you’re looking mostly into _biographies,_ which is... an interesting way to go about it.” He taps his chin. “Definitely more of them in Hell as opposed to actual journals or blueprints. Hah! Occasionally there’s something written down by a sinner who fell with some inkling of something obscure and unique, but they’re hardly reliable and increasingly more difficult to find....” He raises a brow at him and leans toward him slightly. “You wouldn’t happen to have a hand in that, would you? I’ve been looking for radio blueprints for ages and haven’t found any in over a year or two.”

“Mm. Perhapsss.” He flashes a grin, one that almost appears to be cheeky, and he chuckles. “Can’t be the running leader of technology within Hell without having ways of obtaining the sources of humanity’s technological knowledge.”

“Ohohoho...” Alastor narrows his eyes on him. “Would it be too much for me to ask to see those blueprints? I doubt any are particularly superior to the ones I already have, but it never hurts to see how humanity is butchering my beloved electronics.”

“Assss long as you promise to not _steal_ them.” He chuckles, eyes narrowing as it to imply the quip was in jest. “You have no idea how many demons I had to torture just to get even _one_ of those blueprints in my claws; people are quite resistant to hand over any kind of technological ssssecrets to a long dead maniac, after all.”

 _“That_ doesn’t surprise me at all.” He smirks, folding his hands behind his back. “Most people hate handing anything to someone more powerful than they are. I certainly won’t steal them, though. You have my word.”

“Glad to hear it.” He chuckles as he finally reaches a pair of ornate double doors, and he moves to push them open, revealing a large, sparkling clean kitchen, notably quite bigger than Alastor’s own, with all of the essentials surrounded by rows of cabinets and drawers. An oddly shiny oven that appeared to have a completely flat stovetop, a large fridge that looked to have a freezer that was big enough to fit a full body in it, and, oddly enough, a microwave oven. Pentious, glancing around, left and right, moves to snap his fingers twice. “21, where are you?”

Alastor can’t help but stare at everything, eager to take a closer look the stove - it didn’t look like a gas stove, but there’s no telling with Pentious - but he holds himself back, knowing he can do whatever he wants once Pentious has taken his blood. “Everything is so nice here-”

“Here, boss!” 21 pops up from around a corner, unsettlingly close to Alastor, who shifts aside and closer to Pentious at the sudden realization of invaded space. “I had my coffee already. Yours are in the dining hall. The others were, uh...” He gives a meek look. “They were being a bit hectic in here earlier.”

“...Hectic.” Pentious narrows his eyes and his face shifts into a scowl. “Explain.”

“Um...” He shifts, then starts speaking at the speed of light. “13 started throwing pudding all over the place and it hit 17, and you know 17 doesn’t like that, so they started fighting, and uh, well, there was sort of a, uh, food fight, but we cleaned it all up! There’s just, um... not much... food left?” He sticks his hands up. “29 is already out looking for food though. Sir.”

There was a small pause of silence before Pentious raises a hand to his face, looking as if he was pinching the bridge of his non-existent nose, his tail starting to lash back and forth, his hat’s expression taking on a look of complete and utter frustration, a deadpan look of agitation. Pentious lets out a single, very heavy sigh, more of a groan than anything. _“Ugh...”_ He then drops his hand, eyes narrowing a bit. “Where’s 13 and 17 now?”

“Um...” 21 smiles at him. “I’m not... sure?”

A claw is immediately a centimeter away from 21’s face. “Find them and bring them to me immediately. _Now.”_

“Ah, yes, Sir!” 21 sloppily salutes and darts off, squeezing between the two of them to hurry down the hallway. _“Thirteeeeen!”_

Alastor watches the egg’s escape, blinking, then slowly looks back to Pentious. “That... is a lot to process.”

“Welcome to what I have to deal with every day.” He runs a hand over his face again, huffing a bit, his tail thumping once or twice before he glances at Alastor again. “I’m thinking of having those two beat each other to death as punishment. What do you think? I’m alwayssss open for suggestions.”

“Mm, well...” To him, it’d be a waste of eggs. It crosses his mind that he _could_ fry one to eat, but he probably shouldn’t say that in front of his boss. “Anything that creates a splatter, I suppose. Though I wouldn’t mind having something to kick, in all honesty.”

That gets Pentious’s grin to widen, and he lets out a chuckle. “Heheh. If you want to bat one of them around, be my guesssst. Not sure what to do with the other one, however...” He taps his chin ever so slightly, humming. “Could always have 21 chuck 13 or 17 into the vat of acid. Or bury them alive as compost for the garden.”

“Ooh, composting! Sounds lovely.” He gives him a wide smile. “I should take a look at your garden at some point. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one that wasn’t part of the parks.”

“Heheh. It’s not _as_ extensive as park gardens, but I have the Eggs take care of it as best they can. Usually grow produce plants for vegetables or fruit, and occasionally tea. I even have my own tree in there.” Pentious moves to turn toward another pair of double doors to the right, slithering towards it. “Sssspeaking of eggs, might as well go and get that coffee. I can already feel mysssself getting a headache.”

Alastor follows him, glancing around the kitchen one last time before they enter the dining room, a long, open space with a long, wooden table in the middle. There’s all too many seats for a mansion that no one should know about, but Alastor merely puts it up to gaudy display. Two mugs topped with whipped cream sit near the head of the table. Windows line the length of the room, facing the garden, golden curtain pulled back to let in the crimson light of the day.

“Is everything you own so ostentatious?” Alastor gives him a little side eye.

“You’ll find that political folk tend to enjoy the notion of flagrantly exploiting excessive amounts of wealth, Alassstor.” He gives him a glancing look right back, smirking softly.

“Of course! That’s the entire point of capitalism, after all.” He gives him an almost icy grin in return. Best to test the water while he can.

“Indeed it is.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Besssst to swim with the current than fight it.”

“Mm. Sounds like merely surviving rather than thriving.” His grin widens sharply, holding his narrowed gaze.

“Yesss, but survival is key to victory, is it not?”

“It’s the stepping stones, maybe. But not how you truly grasp it.” They make it to the end of the table and Alastor gestures to the chairs awaiting them. “May I?”

“Mmm. Of coursssse. And I still have yet to agree with your claims.” He moves to pick up one of the mugs, raising it to his lips as he gives it a soft sip, tongue sliding out to lick up the whipped cream clinging to his lips. “After all, how elssssse do you think I managed to do the thingssss I did?”

Alastor takes a seat, shifting it so he’s looking more directly at Pentious. “One of two ways, which I’ve been considering for a while now. Either you were working within the system to circumvent and break it. Or you were working within the system to eventually rule over it.” He pulls his coffee toward him and cringes. “Would you like this? Because I won’t.”

“Hmm. Not a fan of sweet coffee?” He moves to take the second mug, setting it down next to his own, before he moves to slither closer to Alastor, his coils idly curling up next to him as he moves to pull out what looks to be a hollow glass tube from within his coat. “Roll up your ssssleeve, please.”

“Not a fan of sugar, actually.” He goes to roll his sleeve, then thinks better of it and starts unbuttoning his jacket. There’s no way he’ll be able to pull both of his sleeves up to his elbow. “I can’t stand sweet things.”

“Mm. Apologiesss. 21 is used to making the coffee the way I prefer it. Two tablespoons of sugar, caramel, a piece of milk chocolate that’s to melt in the coffee, and whipped cream.” Pentious doesn’t move, patiently waiting.

Alastor pauses, staring at him as if he’s looking over glasses, and then blinks and shudders and shrugs his arm out of his jacket sleeve, undoing his cuff and rolling his dress shirt sleeve back. “You can definitely have that cup of coffee. I will... never ask them to brew me anything ever again.”

“Heheh. Noted.” His tail flickers ever so slightly, and he moves to delicately take Alastor’s arm, slowly turning it upwards, so his wrist was facing toward him. “Try to not move. Wouldn’t want the needle to tear a hole in the vein.” He moves to jab the glass tube down on his skin, and the moment the tube hits his arm, Pent reaches up with a thumb and pushes down on a button at the top of the tube, and Alastor feels a sharp sting as cold metal jabs itself into his skin. There was a slight pause, before the dark liquid of blood begins to bubble up within the clear glass of the tube.

“I’m quite good at holding-” Alastor’s ears prick up and he stares as Pentious jabs a tube onto his arm. He blinks at the prick to his skin, though he has to admit that it doesn’t _feel_ like the typical syringe. “...still. Well. That’s intriguing.” He tilts his head, watching as the tube fills with his blood, a dark maroonish color.

“Did I throw you off a touch?” He smirks at him, looking amused, even as the blood continues to slowly bubble up within the glass, hands kept steady against the tube and his arm.

“I... Yes.” He chuckles slightly. “I was expecting a bit more of a syringe and discomfort. This is... surprisingly not the worst I’ve felt.” He flexes his fingers slightly and the vial starts filling a bit more steadily. The color of the blood slowly starts to change, darkening into a pitch black that swirls around the fresher blood.

“I desssigned these my...self. What in the world?” His voice dips into a fascinated tone as his head tilts to watch the way the blood swirls with black and red, his pupils seeming to thin slightly, his tail _flicking_ with obvious interest.

“Hm?” Alastor raises a brow. “What is it?”

“I don’t think I’ve ssseen blood have two different colors within it.”

“Oh, that.” He glances down at the vial for a moment. “As far as I can tell, it’s actually some sort of reaction to oxygen. Or something along those lines. Certainly delayed in comparison to human blood.”

“Hmm...” His eyes narrow a bit. “Blood isn’t black. And thissss is certainly black.” The tube fills up all the way, and he slowly retracts the needle, holding up the glass to the light, seeming to watch the blood swirling around within it keenly.

Alastor watches him, vaguely amused. The tube slowly shifts until it’s fully black, not a hint of red to be seen. “Demonic blood tends to be rather diverse, from what I’ve seen. No one is quite the same down here. I’d dare call it one of the beauties of Hell.”

“Mmm. Perhaps you’re right.” He chuckles softly before moving to tuck the tube back into his coat pocket, only to pull out another one, completely empty. “Do you mind if I take another sample? Wouldn’t want to take one and wind up to not have enough when I actually begin tesssting.”

“Not at all.” He keeps his arm held out for him. “Take as much as you need. I regenerate quickly. Might as well take advantage of that.”

“Mmm. Well, if I’m going to be taking two pintsss of blood, I still ask that you take an hour or two to ressst afterwards. Perhaps also eat something light, just to make sure you don’t passss out.” He moves to jab the empty tube right down against the skin again, and in comes the sting of the needle.

“I had a rather heavy breakfast, actually. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He watches the vial fill again, somewhat enthralled by the visual.

“Hmm..Isss that so?” His tongue flickers out ever so slightly. “Well, I still insissst you rest for a bit. You tend to already have a bit of a theme of passssing out on me.” He smirks a bit at that.

Alastor rolls his eyes, though he laughs with the motion. “I’d hardly call it a theme.” 

“You already almost vomited in my presence too, and I, for one, don’t want to take that risssk again inside my own home.”

“And I apologize for that.” He looks aside, a dusting of red crossing his cheeks.

The tube is retracted from Alastor’s arm and Pent gives him a soft nudge with his elbow. “Ohh, I’m jusssst teasing. Just...” He pauses to tilt his head a touch. “Er, I believe you’d word it as...bumping gums?”

“Er.. yes.” He gives him a small smile and exhales. “I simply wish I had made a better impression.”

“Mm.” He nods softly for a moment, seeming to mull those words over. “Thingssss have been a bit... rocky, the first few timessss, yes. But if I thought ssso little of you, would I have you here?” His tail flicks, as if to indicate the whole of the manor.

“Someone such as yourself could have quite a few reasons for having me here.” Alastor rubs over the inside of his elbow, not quite looking at him. “I still don’t quite understand the decision, if I’m being completely honest.”

“Would you want me to be honesssst, then?”

He raises a brow, eyeing him for a moment. “If you would be so kind. Yes.”

Pent meets his gaze, steadily, calmly. “You’re here because I wanted you here. Admittedly, part of it involvessss the device I wish to make for you, but other than that...I wish to make certain that thingssss run smoothly between us both. To make sure that we underssstand each other and that our perssspectives don’t clash, like they did at firsssst.”

Alastor doesn’t say anything for a moment, trying to pick out any inkling of a lie. Not finding any, he relaxes and starts straightening his sleeve. “I think that would certainly help... make things run smoother.” He’s certain there’s more he should say, but the words don’t come.

A smile grows on Pentious’s face at that, and he nods. “Good to know. Trusssst me when I say that the last thing I want is for us to fight. Thingsss like that only make things harder and make usss both suffer as a result.”

Alastor can’t help but chuckle at that, slipping his coat back on and buttoning up. “If this is an attempt at some form of therapy, you’re playing it a _bit_ on the nose, dear.”

“Therapy?” His hood flickers at that, and he makes a sound not unlike a snort. “Do I look like the kind of man to know _anything_ about therapy?”

“Haha!” He tilts his head back as he laughs. “Not in the least, which is why I said it!” He snickers and leans on the table, propping his head in his hand. “But what you just said sounded like something a therapist would say.”

“Is that so? Hm. Remind me to fix that as soon as possible then.” He chuckles himself, his grin growing a bit more prominent at that.

Alastor hums lightly, a small crackle of static garbling the noise. “I should warn you that I’m not good at opening myself up to people. In fact, I’ve been living by myself and avoiding people for the last twenty years! Haha!” He straightens with the laugh and moves to stand - moves to move, really. “I don’t work well with others, I don’t like orders, and I’ve been told I’m just a touch self-absorbed.” He grins at Pentious and chuckles again. “All things I kept off my resume, of course. But, as a therapist would say-” He clears his voice, straightening his back and miming pulling glasses low over his nose. His voice comes out completely different, a more stereotypical southern drawl, more from Texas than anything else. “You can only _solve_ a problem by _acknowledging_ the problem!”

That gets Pentious to stare at him for a moment or two before he starts to laugh, though it’s not like the laughter he’s heard so much before. It’s a heavy sort of _wheeze_ from within Pentious’s throat, and his hood snaps open _wide_ as his head tilts back, his laughter finally emerging into the full on cackle that it had so often described to be in the past, though, it had less of a sadistic ring and more of a mirthful one, audibly trying to speak through bouts of laughter. “W-What kind of voice _is_ that? Don’t tell me that-!” Another wheeze, followed by a moment of silence as his shoulders shake. “-th-that’s actually what he _sounded_ like!”

Alastor smirks widely, all but preening at managing to get such a loud and bountiful laugh out of the man, and he chuckles with him, though he raises a brow at his comment. “What do-” He stops himself as his voice keeps the accent, letting out a small cough that sounds like a microphone twanging before starting again in his typical mid-Atlantic. _“Don’t tell me that’s what he sounded like?”_

It takes a few seconds for Pentious to regain a bit of himself, making a loud noise as he clears his throat before he finally takes a deep breath, managing to smother the laughter that’s obviously threatening to bubble up again. “Do you...Did you not have a therapist?”

“Oh, no, I definitely had a therapist!” He laughs at that, waving a hand and starting to pace in a circle. “It was actually rather hilarious, to me of course, not him. And to answer your question, yes, he did sound like that. But _you-”_ He squints at him curiously. “-sounded like you already knew that. Have you been doing research on me?”

Pentious, watching him, merely seems to scoff at the notion, still smirking, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “Oh come now, I’m not that indecent, Alasssstor. It’s one thing to ressssearch _me,_ given my hissstory and whatnot, but to research _you_ seems a tad on the...” He pauses, frowning now, as if searching for the proper word. “...Uncouth side of things. Nosy, perhaps.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t have minded.” He shrugs and then almost seems to pout at him. It’s an odd look since he’s still smiling. “In fact, I feel inclined to be offended! I _was_ rather famous topside. I told you I was a major serial killer. Never thought to look for books, but....” He trails off, squinting into the air. “Oh, that’s an idea. Books on me. I bet they’d get the counts wrong. And the locations. And the first kill...”

"Oh, I assure you, if you’ve killed sssomeone, they’ve made books about you. The Marquise De Brinvilliers, Jack The Ripper, Burke and Hare, Elizabeth Báthory, the lisssst goes on.” Pentious moves to idly grip his bow tie and adjust it, tail flicking as he does so. “No doubt if you caused such a violent stir upon the whole of America, then surely people have decided to pick up their penssss full of ink, look at what they know and pitifully take a crack at your own pssssyche.”

“Oh, in that case, they definitely did. I killed a mayor. I think.” He stares at the ceiling. “Fairly certain he was the mayor. It was early on.” He waves a hand and looks at him, somewhat curiously. “I saw you had books on yourself. I didn’t see any in the library, but I assume the one laying open in some random room belongs to a set. Any reason in particular?”

He pauses for a moment, before he lets out a soft chuckle, his eyes straying away from Alastor to stare off into the empty air. “..If I’m being honesssst, it amuses me how little they get right. They almosssst never get it right.”

“You should read the King Cobra book then.” Alastor gives him a softer look. “It was quite a bit more comprehensive in its details and analysis than anything else I’ve read on you. And it has pictures!” He grins jokingly.

“Does it now?” His tail gives a soft flick and he glances at him. “What exactly did thissss book say about me? They always seem to go on some rant or tangent about me at some point or another.“

“Well, it goes over your marvelous inventions, as I’ve said before. But if you’re talking more about procedure and politics? Tactics?” He starts pace, bringing a hand to his chin. “There’s a basic summary of events, like most others. Dirvington, England, your sister and her husband, trains, development of blueprints, mob connections, street gangs, kidnappings, ransoms, killings, cons. The usuals.” He waves his hands again. “Barely any of it is written as an accusation, but more an interrogation of your process. Things you said being in conflict with what you did, or suddenly changing opinions out of the blue. It’s a book that asks _questions_ to obtain answers, rather than simply looking at newspapers to repeat the story.” He slows in his pacing and glances at Pentious, tapping his crimson talons against his lips. “There’s an entire section of the book, toward the back, that’s labeled _Misconceptions and Misinformation._ It tries to correct the record on things as... well, I wouldn’t say _small_ given what the book says, but the public would see it as small... Your occupational record. Were you ever anything more than a factory worker and a watchmaker before you turned criminal?”

Pentious seems to go quiet at that for a moment, gaining an almost contemplative look on his face. “Before..? Hmm. No, I wasn’t. I _could_ consider myssself a aspiring inventor, but thossssse days felt more like the death of my very soul rather than an actual job or occupation. That, and, it technically never went anywhere at all so I suppose that wouldn’t count.”

“You never... perhaps...” Alastor walks toward him, leaning on the back of the chair he had been sitting in just moments ago. “Dealt with steel making?”

Pentious seems to blink at that, before he smirks ever so slightly. “Technically, I had not.”

Alastor leans over the chair to lock eyes with him, squinting. _“Technically,_ you say?”

“I had never dealt in any ssssort of steel making that you accuse me of...before I turned to crime.” His hood rattles a touch as it begins to splay ever so slightly, wicked gleam entering his eyes.

“Ah!” He chuckles to himself. “I see I’ll have to be careful with my wording. Would you care to elaborate?” He rests his chin on a hand.

“Gladly.” His tail flicks back and forth ever so slightly, moving to adjust his bow tie again before folding his arms. “My ssister, Adeline, she married a man by the names of Maxwell Jones, and their particular family happened to be quite the well off company, a sort of jack of all trades that loved to sink their fingersssss into every factory and transsssportation industry they could muster. Steel, coal, mechanical partssss, wood, food, sugar, anything that wassss stocked up on trains and sent chugging along the tracks. A very polite man, respectable, and one that I considered to be in my good gracesss, seeing as how he had been so kind as to equip me with my own wheelchair, back when I was sssstranded in my own childhood home. He even went so far as to offer me a room in his own manor to live in while I sought out a job of my own. A very wonderful man, in all honessssty, and a wonderful, influential, _rich_ man, in all certainty.”

“So it is true.” He narrows his eyes. “And that’s how you knew which trains to hit, when they would run, where they were going? But how did you get to America in the first place? None of the texts have the same story, and I doubt you’d have actually stowed away on a ship.”

His grin widens a touch more. “Sssimple. I visssited my sister one day, around the middle of May, and I had learned that, mossssst recently, one of Maxwell’s most closest representatives, meant to establish and root trade routes for his business in America, had come down with consssumption and died. That being sssaid, he had no one left that would be willing to go over _to_ America in order to cement these new deals, to have the influence of his company grow. He had bitten by the whole Manifesssst Dessstiny bug, you see. Wanted to strike gold in the land of opportunity and whatnot.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Plenty of people are still obsessed with it.” Alastor rolls his eyes. “So he sent you over to America to watch over his business. You were already a criminal, so leaving England only helped your case.” He raises a brow. “And your Noblemen?”

“The Civil War had more or lesssss run its coursssse at this time, so not many people over in England were willing to strike many deals there; they saw the place as a weak and crumbling country that was secondssss away from dissolving into anarchy dessspite the Union staying upright, and tales of radicalized Confederates still trying to spark revolution certainly weren’t disssuading any fears.” His grin grows a bit more at that. “Luckily, I had nothing to fear with a group of “hired gunssss” behind my back.”

Alastor’s eyes travel around the room as Pentious describes the antebellum period, disinterested in the typical, boring history that he had heard repeated over and over again. It was certainly different hearing an account from someone who lived it, but... His eyes trace their way back at the mention of hired guns and his smile curls. “You’ve always been clever, haven’t you? And no one suspected a thing?”

“Dare I say they even whole heartedly _accepted_ the idea. Maxwell called me a downright geniusss when I brought it up, and the men over in America even confessssed that they had been considering doing the same things themsssselves.” He chuckles softly, tail flicking to and fro. “Little did they know, little did they know.”

Alastor can’t help but laugh ever so softly at that. He can imagine the man before him discussing plans to bring ‘hired guns’ to the war-torn country that had not too long ago freed itself from colonial hands. The case all but made itself, all but bullet proof. “It’s not in the history books, your connection with Maxwell. I’d never even heard before that your sister was married.”

“Wouldn’t want the brother of your wife to be a target, would you?” He smirks a bit wider, his tail starting to flick back and forth. “Maxwell made sure to keep it off the books to make sure no aspiring assassin or some such would try and snipe me in order to gain control of the company’s oversea trade routes. Even gave me a few fancy clothes that the more arisssstocratic of the time wore in order to improve my look. After all, if a man in a top hat and sssuit walks into your establishment with a group of armed bodyguards, are you _really_ about to question him and his authority?”

“Well, I would, but I’m hardly the norm.” He chuckles and straightens. “I suppose no one decided to correct or highlight that in the end, then.” His brows furrow and he trills his fingers against the chair he’s leaning against. “Oh, now I’m wondering what would have happened if I’d found out about that while alive. It would have been a killer story.” He arches his hand in front of him as if he could read the headline. _“Capitalists Hide Connections to Infamous World Conquerer!_ Haha!”

“Hehehe...I’m sure it would’ve been quite the bomb to drop.” His tail flickers again, and he seems to tilt his head a touch. “Out of curiosssity, what would you have thought of me if you lived in my time? I know it’s a bit of a...odd hypothetical question to ask, but the ansssswers always tend to fascinate me.”

Alastor snickers at the witty comment , then tilts his head in kind at his question. He lets out a loud laugh after he finishes talking, waving a hand and motioning as if he were wiping a tear away. “Oh, heheh, such an adorable question.” He considers how to actually respond. “Depending on how the years worked out, I could have easily been a recently freed slave, Pentious. I’m Creole, in case you didn’t know. If I even lived to see the day you stepped on American soil, well...” He looks aside. “I’d be certainly happy to see America crumble, that’s for sure.”

His grin quickly drops, his hood flattens, and his eyes glance away, wincing slightly in what was obviously visible discomfort. “Oh, erm...M-My apologies. I, uh...hadn’t considered that aspect when I asked you that.”

“Oh, it’s entirely fine.” He waves a hand dismissively. “It’s not like we keep the skin we were born with down here. Hard to tell after death and all that.” He watches him for a moment, then shrugs. “But anyways, I don’t really see the point in such a question. Hypothetical indeed. Absolutely no indication of the current, modern reality. Now, a more _interesting_ question would be what _you_ would have thought of _me_ if you suddenly found yourself in the twenties!” He chuckles, putting a hand on his hip. “Let’s say you somehow knew I was the famed New Orleans Butcher. Let’s even say that you know everything about me that you know now. We run into each other on the streets. What’s the first thing you say?”

Pent blinks at that, and after a moment, he tilts his head, eyes narrowing a touch. “Well...Assssuming I’m in America for the ssssame goals of trying to obtain power and influence...” He taps his chin with a claw, before he lets himself smirk. “I believe I’d say “keep up the good work, my good man.” Polite, formal, and just enough to let you know that I know _something_ while also being inconsssspicuous.”

Alastor chuckles lowly. "Now that _is_ interesting. Assuming I know nothing about you, given you have yet to cause outright problems for America..." His smile widens and he holds up a finger. "One of two things would happen: I take you as another man who's having a good day, or I change my plans to kidnap and/or kill you that day."

“I have a feeling I’d be able to talk my way out of being killed if you went with the kidnapping route.” His own grin seems to widen at that, eyes narrowing. “You seem the type to...resssspect the work of others. And I have a feeling you’d find _my_ work to be more than a little interessssting. Am I wrong?”

"Oh, certainly!" He brings his hand to his chest and walks out from behind his chair. "I have standards, I'm not a _monster._ My victims always get a pleasant chat before their end."

“And if I ssssaid I was some aspiring maniac that was looking to gain power through crime and my own deadly weaponssss until I ruled over the world?” He raises a brow, looking quite smug, to say the least. “Would you kill me then?”

"Hmm...." He taps his chin. _"Hm._ Depending on the year... chances are... Hmm..." He quirks a brow. "I think I'd ask to hear more! Chances are, I'd think you're insane! But definitely the fun kind. I'd want to hear more before deciding." He glances at him. "Keep in mind, you'd be a liability to me. It's as if I were trying to convince you to spare me from one of your rail thefts."

“Hmmm...A curiousssss conundrum indeed. To be honessst, I’d probably start to ask about you. Your murders, how long you’ve been killing, why you do it...” He chuckles softly, and his grin only widens. “To be honessst...I might even make the offer of _recruiting_ you.”

"Well, I would make an excellent recruit." He gives him a charming, lively smile. "If I were to take the bait, which, to be fair, is somewhat likely, I would hope, I'd probably leave you for the night and investigate whatever you tell me. Risky, since the chances of you escaping or someone finding you increase."

“And I’m quite certain you’d find evidence, wherever I told you to look. Perhapssss a crash site. Perhaps a quiet place in a bog where I sssstashed some bodies. Who knows. But I can assure you, there would be evidence.” He chuckles softly, smiling right back, his tail idly twitching back and forth.

His smile turns a bit more sinister, and he leans toward him, bending at the hip. "Is that the case? Chances are I'd find you even sooner then. Not many would know this, but I left plenty of bodies in the nearby waters. Plenty of gators that needed chew toys and all."

“Did you? Well, ssssurely we could share the swamp then, couldn’t we?” He tilts his head, his own smile growing till it seems as if all his fangs were on display. “If you joined me in this hypothetical sssscenario, I’m sure we’d find a way to keep on using it.”

“I would hope so!” He chuckles and smoothly takes his seat again. “I think the only issue you’d have is getting me out of New Orleans. I might be swayed with the promise of occasional visitation, though. Perhaps.”

“What if I sssssaid that once I rose to power I’d _give you_ New Orleans? The whole sssstate of Louisiana, even?” His hood begins to flare, and he leans forward ever so slightly this time, eyes seeming to glimmer with sadistic whimsy, almost as if he was bargaining with Alastor right there. “Let you have the whole of the sssstate in the palm of your hand and let you do whatever as you wish with it?”

Alastor’s eyes widen at the proposition, tracking Pentious’s movements, his seriousness (even in the play of this hypothetical situation), and for a short moment he feels a small sense of serenity at the mere _thought_ of it. The space where his mother lived and died, where she is buried, the reason he wouldn’t want to leave - all his to do with as he wanted? He lets out a laugh to keep his smile sharp. “Ha! That would be something you’d say, wouldn’t it? Hmm... I could see myself taking the offer, though I’d definitely worry about what would happen once you’re ruling the world. I just might end up undermining your authority on accident.” He gives him a cheeky smirk.

Pentious leans back, a hand splayed on his chest as is he was aghast, and he lets out a scoff, still smirking. “You take me for ssssome kind of _scoundrel._ I wouldn’t go and reduce the whole of the world to _ash!_ What kind of a ruler of all mankind would I be if I did that?”

“And that’s precisely how and why I’d undermine you.” He chuckles and leans back as well. “I’d be the notable anarchist to your totalitarianism. Granted, it’d be superficial, but that’s what the news would say. And I would be _the_ journalist of Louisiana.”

“Hehehe. Would you _really_ go and undermine me? Ussssurp me? Throw me off of my newly conquered throne? _Kill_ me?” He tilts his head again, tail idly sliding back and forth across the carpet, almost like a cat that was watching something with great interest.

“Oh, please, no!” He shakes his head quickly. “Not at all, haha! It’d all be unintentional. I have this horrid tendency to breed anarchy everywhere I go. Once I get the chance to speak, that is.” He meets him with his own amused gaze.

“Heheh. Unintentional, you sssay? Dare I call that amusing. An agent of chaossss who feels it so strongly that they’d wind up toppling my ssstate of power right from under my clawsss.” He chuckles softly, his hood seeming to quiver ever so slightly. “Fasssscinating, almost.”

“Almost?” He feigns offense for a moment, then waves a hand to dismiss it. “Careful, or I’ll start talking politics more intensely.”

Alastor leans his cheek on a fist, watching Pentious for a moment. Maybe it’d be easier for them to get over whatever hurdles needed to keep from bumping elbows in the future. Something about the man makes it all too easy for him to talk and talk and talk. He narrows his eyes. He’s listening, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t have expected that a week ago.

“Hehe. To be frank, politicssss were merely ssssomething I learned through my criminal career. A language, so to speak, that I’ve become _quite_ fluent at. It’s how I rubbed elbows with the criminalsss, persuaded the recently unemployed, the dessstitute, the homeless. It was even how I got mysssself out of the eyes of the Pinkertons.” His tail flicks ever so slightly, and his eyes seem to lock with Alastor’s own. “Those brutessss were quite the thorns in my side. Damn near everywhere, little ssssecret agents lying in wait, intent on taking me captive and hanging me by the neck. Thossse ones...Those are the ones I killed the mosssst freely, and with _much joy,_ I might add.”

“Pinkertons...” He mulls about for a reference in his mind. “Ah, the coppers, yes? Government involved and whatnot.” He holds back a sudden yawn, covering his mouth with the back of a hand. “Excuse me. Lack of caffeine, I’m sure..”

“Yesss, indeed, dogs of the damn government they certainly...” He trails off as soon as he sees Alastor yawn, his hood seeming to perk up a bit. “Are you alright?”

"Perfectly fine!" He waves a hand again. "Merely missing coffee is all." Alastor blinks a few times and then sighs as Pentious doesn't appear all too swayed. "I'm touched by the concern, but I assure you I am entirely fine. Have I explained my regenerative abilities yet?"

“Regenerative abilitessss that feasibly could run dry, especially if you took two magical attacksss from Lucifer not even a day before.” He frowns a bit more intensely. “It would ssssooth my conscience a bit if you did resst.”

"Yes, but, well-...." Alastor fumbles for a moment on what to say, then exhales, half pouting. The conversation had just been getting good too! Pinkertons, conspiracies. One of his ears twitch and he straightens in his seat. "Fine, fine. I'll rest, and then we can continue discussing the best methods on killing cops, one killer to another."

That last bit seemed to get Pentious to grin, and he chuckles, nodding softly. “Deal.” He moves to stand from his coiled position, starting to slither back through the doorway to the kitchen. “Come along. I have a guesssst bed you can use.”

"Just one?" He hops up and follows after him, humor flooding his voice in full force again. "My, my. Sounds like there are plenty of hidden rooms for me to find in a building this big then."

“Hehehe. Truth be told, the guessst beds were merely a precaution. A sssort of ‘just in case’ rather than an actual planned assortment of rooms for people to use. Not exactly keen on inviting the whole of Lucifer’s court over to take a nap in my houssse.” He chuckles a touch, and begins to lead him out through the kitchen and right back down the hall.

"I doubt anyone wants Lucifer's court in their house. They can be a rowdy bunch." He follows just behind him, enough space given for his tail, and quietly holds back another yawn.

“Indeed. Hence why I’ve never invited them. Hehehe.” He chuckles a little at his own quip, before moving to take a right, pointing a claw down at the end of the hallway. “It should be down there. It’s the door with the golden knocker on it.”

Alastor stares in the direction he's pointing. "Huh. I hadn't expected there to be a bedroom on the first floor. I like it." He turns back to Pentious and shifts slightly, offering a hand. "I suppose I should thank you again for... the accommodations. You didn't have to, after all." He offers an almost meek smile.

“Oh pleasssse, it’s the least I can do, after all.” He moves to take his hand, giving it a firm shake, his grin seeming to grow a bit more genuine, a bit more like a regular smile, not smug or sadistic or anything that hinted at the brewing egotism or hunger for death.

"Of course." He considers saying something else, then merely shrugs and pulls his hand back. "I'll be sure to shout if anything strange happens. Have a pleasant day!" He flashes a wide smile again and then turns and starts walking toward the room, tucking his arms behind his back and starting to hum to himself.

“If you need me, check the library, I’ll probably be there. Oh, and try to keep the door locked; ssssometimes the eggs like to sneak into the guest rooms to sleep in them when they think I’m not looking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Alastor waves a hand by his side, listening more to the sound of his heels clicking on wooden floor, echoing in the largeness of the room. Good acoustics. He’d have to try out the piano sometime. It had certainly been a while... He glances over his shoulder. “Permission to maim them if they get out of hand?”

Pentious’s tail flicks, and nods softly, waving his hand in a “go right ahead” sort of gesture. “Oh, pleasssse, kill them freely if you want. Just try not to sssplatter them all over the walls. You’d be surprised how hard it is to sssscrape egg yolk off of dried paint.”

Alastor lets himself chuckle at that, turning toward the door. "I'll try my best." He opens the door and glances at him again, nodding before slipping inside.

He leans his back against the door and closes his eyes for a moment, taking in the events of the last few hours. He had gone from an average day of work to staying in _Sir Pentious’s mansion_ for observation and smoothing occupational differences. _And_ they had all but interviewed each other - without throwing cars to see who would catch it and how. He doesn’t know where to begin taking that apart. He opens his eyes and takes in the room instead. Maybe taking stock of the physical would help steady his thoughts. It was a surprisingly lush room, that was for certain, with dark red carpeted floors that appeared clean and quite soft to the touch, walls that displayed same snake style pattern that seemed to almost line every other hall, black disks outlined with flecks of gold, and he couldn’t help but note that the items lining the walls, atop cute little ornate white shelves, seemed to be more that of jewelry and other notably expensive materials. There was even a small chandelier that looked to be dangling from the ceiling, a collection of metal wires strung with delicate beads of multi-colored jewels of blues and greens that seemed to contrast beautifully against the dark of the walls. There’s a window facing a row of shrubbery, thick, golden and black curtains pulled apart and letting in the light of Hell. An egg minion walks by, holding a ridiculous amount of metal scrap in their arms, and Alastor sighs slightly as he moves to close the curtains, loosely tying the bottoms of them together so they wouldn’t drift apart with any drafts. There’s a bed in the far corner, clearly Victorian in style with its own collection of curtains designed to partition the sleeper from the room, and an open door leading to a bathroom, fit with a shower and tub. A wooden wardrobe, fit to hold suits and dresses as well as folded clothes, stands against the wall near the door. There’s even a desk, stocked with paper and pen, at the other wall.

Alastor puts his hands on his hips as he surveys the furniture. “This room could easily be as big as my last house. In square feet, at least. Ridiculous.”

He glances toward the bed, eyeing it after a moment, before he lets out a heavy sigh as he moves to walk towards it, letting his arms stretch over his head as he lets out a soft groan, feeling his spine crackle. He moves to pull back the curtain that’s covering the bed from view, only to freeze the moment he sees an egg sitting there against one of the pillows, a book shielding it’s face from view, clearly intently reading it. The book had a red hardback cover, and the title was depicted in black letters: _The Complex Biology of Snakes, Volume 1._ The egg in question seems to register that someone else was in the room, and it lowers the book to flash Alastor a chipper smile. “Hello!”

Alastor blinks, staring at the egg in mild confusion, eyes glancing between it and the book - he’s not about to forget how strangely those other eggs had reacted to simply seeing Pentious, after all - and then sighs, giving the egg an annoyed grimace. “Sir Pentious has given me this room for the period of my stay. I’d like you to leave.”

“Oooh!” The egg looks a bit fascinated, and it seems to giggle. “Lucky you! You got the fanciest guest room in the building! Not many people get the chance to sleep here!” It glances at the book, then moves to hold it up to him. “Want to read this? It’s one of my favorites. Loooots of _pretty pictures.”_ The words are accompanied by it’s weird jagged features shifting to resemble wiggling eyebrows.

Alastor raises a brow at the comment about the _fanciest guest room in the building,_ and then promptly wrinkles his nose at the tone of voice. He snatches the book, barely glimpsing diagrams of intimate snake biology, and snaps the book shut. “Are there any more of you in here?”

“Nope! Just me!” The egg seems to smile at that fact, then seems to frown a bit, pointing at the book. “Don’t go letting any of the others know I keep that in here, ok? They’re always trying to steal it from me.”

He raises a brow, then lets out a laugh. “Oh, certainly! I wouldn’t think to tell a soul.” He leans down, closer to the egg. “Would you like to hear one of my own secrets?”

“Sure! What kinda secret is it?” The egg’s mouth twists into a vibrant grin and it leans forward eagerly.

“An extra secret secret.” He brings a finger up in front of his lips and chuckles softly. “In fact, it’s too important to say in this bedroom, what with the window and door and all. Follow me and I’ll tell you.” He winks and straightens, walking toward the bathroom and flipping on the lights, then the fan, letting the whirring sound fill the air. The sink is larger than he had anticipated. Easily enough to fit a watermelon, or something of similar size. He turns on the hot water and stoppers the drain.

The egg, blinking dumbly, eagerly moves to hop out of the bed and waddles it’s way right after him, blinking at the sight of the sink being turned on. “Whatcha doing there?”

"Making noise." He smirks down at him and pats at the open space next to the sink. "Why don't you come up here? It'll be easier to keep this quiet, and it's a secret I'd just _hate_ to get out. You understand that, right?" He tilts his head and softens his face, looking for any trace of sympathy from the egg.

The egg, seeming to blink dumbly once more for a few seconds, finally seems to get the point, and it moves to hop up onto the counter, still grinning. “Oh yeah. Definitely. You know how hard it is to keep a book like that out of everyone’s hands? If I let it slip that I had it, I’d never see it again.”

“Which is precisely why secrets need to be told in the utmost confidence.” He grins and closes the door. “Now, I want to show you something very interesting. I haven’t even shown Pentious this yet.” He sets the book on the edge of the sink and spreads his fingers over the water. “Do you know the legend of Greek fire? A fire that withstand the extinguishing powers of water?”

“No. Sounds cool.” The egg glances down at the water that was slowly filling up the sink more and more. “How’s that work?”

“It’s something about the chemical composition. Complicated things, but I’ve figured it out.” He turns off the faucet as the water reaches the edge, and then submerges his hands, not even flinching despite the steam that wafts over the surface. “Now, watch...” He makes a scooping motion under the water, turning his hands palm up, and reveals a sparkling, iridescent, multicolored flame swirling between his hands. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

 _“Ooooh!”_ The egg’s eyes, empty and dull as they are, almost seems to widen in fascination, and it leans forward ever so slightly to stare into the flames. “It’s so _pretty!”_

“Heheh. I thought you’d like it.” He spreads his hands a little and the fire grows, flickering and turning deeper shades of green and purple and yellow. After a moment, he raises his hands, and a globe of water raises with them, dripping slightly before convalescing into a tighter collection. “And Pentious doesn’t know a thing about it.” He carefully removes one hand from under the globe, holding it closer to the egg for it to stare at.

“Wow! You should really show him sometime! He’s just _gotta_ know that you can do this! It would blow his mind!” The egg’s eyes follow the movements of his hands, staring in absolute awe.

“You can get closer, if you want.” He trills his fingers, letting the globe spin slowly, his other hand coming to rest on the egg’s back. “It’s even _more_ beautiful up close.”

“..Can I touch it?” The egg glances at him, before slowly leaning forward ever so slightly, it’s face seeming to inch closer and closer to the flames.

“Of course you can! It’s not _so_ hot.” He chuckles as if that were a silly question, holding his hand a little closer. “You could even jump right on in it, no harm done.”

“Really?” It quickly leans forward to slap a hand down down on top of the flames, but then it’s eyes widen, and it yanks back his hand as it immediately starts to smoke and burn, the flesh easily starting to catch alight with that iridescent flame. _“AAAH!”_

“Oh, _tsk tsk.”_ Alastor shakes his head, his hand on the egg’s back tightening and holding it in place. “You really don’t know about the myths, do you?” He chuckles and shoves the egg into the remaining hot water of the sink, dropping the fire and water on top of it and holding it underwater. He starts humming softly, covering the odd sounds of garbled coughing and splashing from the egg.

There was at least several minutes of the egg’s frantic screaming as it was steadily being both drowned and burnt alive, before the whole of its body finally went limp, and air bubbles stopped leaking free of it’s mouth. Small flecks of yellow yolk spilled free from it’s jagged lips, possibly acting as blood, and when Alastor moved to roll it’s body over, where it’s eyes once stood had shifted into comically large X’s, indicating that it was certainly, no doubt, very dead.

 _“First you want to play, and then it’s no...”_ Alastor chuckles, holding the egg up and dismissing the flames. “Mm... Time to see what you’re made of. Hopefully not overcooked. That would just be a _travesty....”_

He sharpens a claw, tapping the little creatures shell, and slowly starts prying at the thin cracks from where he had pressed the egg against the bottom of the sink. The shell comes off easily off, peeling off as any hard boiled egg would, and bright yellow flesh, oozing with sticky strings of yolk, is slowly exposed. He begins to dig in his claws, working to cut through the flesh and bypass the muscles, letting his fingers grip the insides much like he would with an actual egg, moving to pull it open, a gross, fleshy tearing ringing through the air as he does so. He feels himself blink as he looks down at the slimy, sloppy bundle of what looked to be _organs_ within the egg’s body, and though not all of it looked quite right, it was just similar enough that he could make out intestines, possibly even something similar to a brain.

“How interesting...” He hadn’t expected the little minions to have actually had insides - outside of a yolk, that is. And the egg white itself felt remarkably rubbery for an egg. He cuts a section of the muscle and pops it into his mouth. “Still eggy. Hm.” Maybe it was cooking it like this that made it so tense? Or maybe the egg thrashing. Well, he’d have to run a few tests of his own before making any definitive opinions. He’d have to get rid of the organs, regardless. There had been some bushes outside that window…

After little more than a thought, he moves to scoop up the organs out of the egg’s insides, taking care to hold them so that their tubes didn’t hang downward and drip their yolk toward the floor, moving to open the door again, quickly moving across the room to reach the window. He sees one of the little egg things walk by, but he finds himself not quite caring, unlatching the window and pushing it open with his elbow before dropping the organs into a nearby bush. The egg, understandably, jolts at the sudden crash of the flesh crashing against the bushes, and it actually drops the box of scraps it was carrying to start digging through the plants, seeming to look around for what had landed in it.

Alastor watches, amused yet unimpressed, as the egg discovers the remains of one of its siblings, a horrified expression crossing its face, and slowly closes the window as it looks up at him, baring his fangs before he wanders off to continue his feast.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with another installment! Apologies for the long wait again, things have been... pretty wild. Hope everyone’s doing well and safe. If you enjoy this chapter, feel free to kudos and write a comment!

Alastor wakes up on his stomach, all but smothering himself with the heat of the blankets and pillows. He stretches his arms, nails hitting the headrest, cool in comparison to the personally heated bed, and yawns, a stuttering inhale followed by a gusty exhale. “Ggh.” He wrinkles his nose, smelling his impromptu lunch from... how long ago? He props himself up on his elbows and glances blearily around for a clock, but instead finds the curtains around the bed drawn closed, leaving him blind to anything that might be (happening) in the room. Flipping himself over, he rubs his face, trying to remember if he had locked the door before taking his nap. Had he locked the door before digging into that boiled egg? His hand falls back into his lap and he kicks the blankets aside, pulling back a curtain to search for unwanted visitors.

The light spills into the room, revealing nothing at all to be in the room disturbing him, not even so much as a single particle of dust out of place, and after a slow, careful glance around the room, just to make sure there were no eggs hiding around anywhere, he lets the curtain drop. He moves to slowly stand up from the bed, grunting to himself as he momentarily feels the sensation of twinges within his spine, and he moves to arch his back, aiming to pop the pockets that had settled there, his muscles burning, claws momentarily curling within his palms. After at least a good few seconds of this, he lets his hands drop to his sides, feeling one of his ears flicker, though he briefly does lift his arm back up, pressing the back of his wrist close to his nose as he takes a brief sniff, only to recoil at the stench of egg guts still clinging to his claws. “Eck...Yeah, even I can agree with needing a shower this time..”

He glances at the door to the bathroom. The tub had been nicer than others he had seen down here, but it was unknown to him as any other. Not that he’d _never_ seen or used a tub before (obviously he has) but something about using other people’s baths just felt... _wrong._ Uncomfortable might be a better word. But here he was, in Sir Pentious’s mansion, smelling of an egg minion he had murdered (albeit with permission, if he remembers properly) and the typical murderer mindset of his told him to hide as much of the evidence as possible. Including anything that seems off about his own physical person. He checks the door to the hallway, finding it locked, and draws the curtain to the window closed, and pulls his bowtie from around his throat. Another thing he doesn’t like: undressing in other people’s homes. But sacrifices had to be made, especially in the realm of murder and Hell. He checks the armoire (or dresser or wardrobe or whatever Pentious would call it) for a towel before going any further, and drapes it over himself as he undresses, then slips into the bathroom and locks the door as he turns on the shower to heat up.

He bites his lip ever so slightly, catching sight of the bright white tile that was the floor of the bathroom, taking a moment to tighten his shoulders upon seeing it, reaching out to steady a hand on the wall, his hooves remaining stiff and motionless against the last bare bit of carpet that was lining the edge of the door. “...Tile...Of all the things, it had to be tile..”

It makes sense, when he thinks about it. Pentious doesn't have legs; he slithers on a snake's tail. Most denizens of Hell had hooves under their shoes, but the egg minions simply had little stilted feet, so no one except the occasional guest would have to worry about the tile or wooden flooring. Maybe that was half the point. Pentious doesn't seem like someone who _frequently_ entertains people, and honestly seems more likely to urge people off his property than on. A little architectural jab and joke all in one. He huffs and steps into the bathroom, reaching toward the sink to help guide himself into the room. He bites his lip as he slowly begins trying to inch his way across the floor, feeling his claws tighten across the sink’s edge as his hooves carefully step down onto the tile, holding his breath, swearing he can feel the slippery surface beneath his hooves, providing no traction, nothing to grip or to balance against. His teeth grit, reaching out with another hand to grip the handle of the shower’s door (it was one of those fancy glass window types), only to feel his legs start to slip, and he quickly tightens his grip against the sink, finding himself almost hopelessly floundering wound as if he was in the middle of a lake of ice.

He takes a couple more breaths before finally moving to straighten himself back up, grimacing, moving to grip the door to the shower again and pulling it open, just enough for him to slip through, and he lets his hands drift to clutch onto the door as he begins to carefully step his way into the tub itself, this one at least having a mat down at the bottom that provided a place for his hooves to cling. He sighs with much relief as he closes the door shut behind him, bending down briefly to check the temperature of the water, before pulling the knob attached to the nozzle upwards, and there was a brief pause before the shower head began to erupt with streams of water. His ears twitch as water soaks into his hair, slowly plastering onto his head. A bar of soap and a jar of shampoo sit on a ledge against the wall. He lets the hot water wash over him, taking another deep breath and letting his muscles relax. Hopefully it hasn't been too long that he fell asleep. Pentious clearly had his own things to do, but the last thing he wants is to give the impression he's not as well off as he had made himself out to be. He can’t help but tilt his head a bit, humming to himself at the thought of what Pentious might be doing currently. There wasn’t exactly a clock within the room (at least not one that he had seen) and from what light he had glimpsed when he had held open the curtains, he couldn’t quite tell if it had been close to sunset or sunrise. Truthfully, the idea of somehow being asleep without waking up through the entire night, nevermind the fact that he could have very well possibly slept through the day in Pentious’s own home, was...troubling, to say the least. If he _had_ accidentally slept overnight, then perhaps the blow he had been given by Lucifer had taken off more energy than he had thought.

At the same time, eating that egg should have helped him regain more energy. Eating demonic creatures, and generally eating more throughout the day, should help him readjust. He runs a hand over his shoulder and neck, noting the bruising on his arm is nearly completely gone. Average passive healing rate. Maybe he could tell that to Pentious if he asks about his health.

He moves to shake his head a little, letting out a huff, before finally starting to reach for the shampoo bottle, moving to pump a good handful into his palm before starting to lather it into his hair proper, starting to feel his tail starting to droop with wetness as well. It was probably best to get such thoughts out of his mind for now, and merely get the shower up and over with so he could get out of it faster and go to see where Pentious was. It would be quite rude of him to have slept for so long and keep the man waiting even further than he already had been, after all, and the last thing he wanted to be was a rude guest. Lord knows his mother would march right down from Heaven to Hell just to drag him by the ear to Pentious and have him apologize for bad manners.

The thought makes him smile a bit wider and he hums to pass the time away, shortly finishing his scrub (why did it have to be soap _bar_ when liquid soap is readily available? Another question to ask Pentious) and turning off the water. He shakes his arms, trying to get as much water off as possible, and lets his ears flick before pulling the shower door open again. He glares down at the tiles, feeling an eye twitch. At least he had left his towel on the floor. “Definitely need a mat of some kind.” With quite a bit of finagling, expert footwork typically reserved for dancing, and the use of a spare hand towel, he manages to slip back into the carpeted bedroom, well wrapped but still dripping.

It was then that he finds himself freezing in place, his body growing stiff, going rigid, his frame _tightening_ as all his muscles immediately tug themselves taut. The door to his room was no longer locked, and instead was wide open, and not only was the curtains of the bed tugged back, but his clothes were also completely gone, nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t help but notice that the book his previous meal had been reading (one he had placed the table next to the door, meaning to take it to Pentious so that it could be burned to ash) was also gone. He can feel the static bubbling in his throat, whining for a moment as he tries to formulate _something_ to say that isn’t an outright curse on all the eggs in the mansion. One of the slimy little bastards not only picked the lock to his room, but _stole his clothes!?_ And _left the door open!?_ Shit, the door _is_ open! He rushes over to the door and slams it shut, heart racing as he turns around, eyes darting to every corner of the room, trying to find any stray eggs that may still be lingering about. They _had_ to have heard him in the shower. And if they were lewd behind Pentious’s back.... He feels a growl creep out of his throat as he catches sight of the armoire again. There had to be at least _something_ in there.

He marches over and immediately moves to pull open the first drawer, which, upon inspection, appears to contain what amounts of simple pairs of black boxer shorts, one of which he quickly moves to throw onto the bed, before shutting the drawer closed again. He tugs the second drawer open, to find pairs of what appear to be shirts, and he moves to grab one, pulling it out so he could inspect it. Bright white cloth, long sleeves, clearly meant to be a button up, and along the chest and sleeve endings were signature Victorian style frills, a sight that made his eyes narrow ever so slightly. “...It’ll have to do.”

Honestly, he _had_ worn something similar, a long while back, in the twenties. A French fashion that had gotten popular all over, which he had appreciated, worn once, and then promptly never wore again when the frills happened to somehow get caught in his radio’s wiring systems. He hadn’t even thought to wear something like it in Hell, and he hadn’t seen Pentious wearing anything similar either, but... His ears flick, sending droplets of water everywhere as he pulls open another drawer, finding one singular pair of pants. _“Merci.”_ He tosses it onto the bed and, after another glance at the window to make sure nothing else is amiss, quickly starts changing while half under the towel.

With some stroke of luck (or maybe some twisted joke of the eggs’) everything fits. The pants are a bit snug, and there’s no room for his tail, but there’s no threat of the thing slipping or bursting at the worst moment. The shirt is a little large, but that almost make the poofiness of it stand out all the better. His hair is still dripping as he darts toward the door, hooves clicking on the tile even as he slips every other step. It’s infuriating, how he can so easily be rendered useless by something as simple as _tile flooring._ He tries to take his time, walking stiffly as his eyes dart around the hall, looking for any sign of the thief as he moves toward the center of the house.

He tried his damndest to keep himself from gripping the walls, not wanting to risk his claws slicing through the scale-patterned paper, his teeth gritting fiercely as every single step makes his ankles wobble, makes him feel as if he’s five seconds from toppling off of his feet as if his bones had been reduced to a precarious deck of cards. He feels one of his hooves sharply slip out from under him, his balance leaving him tottering, stumbling, falling down onto a knee, and a sharp curse falls from his lips in a hiss before he can even process that he was saying anything. _“Putain de merde!”_ He lets out a huff before he moves to push himself back up to his feet, feeling his drenched hair dangling in his vision, sticking to the back of his neck, and only manages a few more steps before he finds himself stumbling once again. _“Je vais frapper le diable dans la gorge!”_

He takes a deep breath, static crackling through and tickling his throat, trying to remind himself that he has no idea what time it is or where Pentious could be. Or if Pentious knows any French. Hopefully he doesn’t. He slowly gets used to the odd way he’s walking, almost like a penguin but with a sort of slide to it, trying to use the slippery nature of the floor to his advantage. He makes it to the kitchen with only a few more slips, gritting his teeth in a hostile smile as he sees a few eggs lingering about.

One stops whatever he’s doing, standing on top of a tall stool and stirring a cup of something. Alastor can smell the sugar from the doorway. Confectionary sugar. “Oh, hi! Do you need something to eat, or-”

 _“Nom de dieu,_ where are my _clothes,_ you conning little case doughs?” There’s a growl in his throat, and he stalks toward the egg, grabbing onto the counter as he gets close enough.

“What?” The Egg seems to somehow get across that its raising an eyebrow without having any hair to speak of. “What are you talking about?” It glances him over. “You’re wearing clothes right now.”

Alastor forces in a shaky breath, seconds from disemboweling them, holding his claws back from sinking into the counter. “My _other_ clothes, you chump! The ones knicked from my room? Red, pinstriped suit? Spectator shoes?” He stomps a foot on the ground to make a point. “I can barely walk around this damned mansion!”

“Uhhhh...” The Egg looks progressively more and clueless by the second, before it simply gives off a slight shrug. “I dunno. Not my job.”

“Of course.” He feels an eye twitch, grin curling, and takes a few steps as if moving to find someone else to help him, only to bring a fist down on top of it and splatter yoke and eggshell all about the stool and counter. He glares down at all the other eggs, previously milling around the floor or idly chatting on whatever surfaces they could reach and now staring at him in horror. “Now that you’re all paying attention... Who stole my clothes?”

There was at least two seconds of silence before all the Eggs immediately start to scream and run around like chickens with their heads cut off, immediately running out the door and into the halls as if they were being chased, their annoying little screeches soon fading away into silence again. There was at least a small pause, a small lull, and Alastor can’t help but glance down to find that some of the yolk had splattered itself into his shirt, and he feels his eye twitch again. 

There was the sound of a door creaking open off to the side. “Alassstor?”

Alastor doesn’t seem to hear him, barely even recognizes it, as he moves to slidingly trot after the main flow of running Eggs, who, upon hearing the door open and hearing that voice, flee toward supposed safety. He sputters staticky, French curses, blood boiling at the thieves, somewhere among the crowd, flee, and before he has a chance to contemplate the gold and black blur of color in front of him, he finds himself tripping on an uneven tile, slipping, hitting something heavy and dense full force in the chest. 

There was the sound of a loud yelp, of claws against his sides, and as Alastor’s eyes pop open, he finds himself pressed flat to Pentious, chest to chest, the massive snake looking to be at least one or two inches from completely hitting the floor, precariously perched to keep the both of them from toppling. He began to register the fact that their eyes were close, quite close together, Pentious’s own seeming to be full of shock, able to see the way those pupils flex as they thin and shiver within the bright, burning pink of his eyes, eyes that almost looked as if they were _glowing_ from within his sockets. Such an odd glow. A fascinating glow.

Alastor’s close enough to make out a few flecks of gold within the black scales on his face, close enough to _see_ the scales individually. He hadn’t even _thought_ about Pentious possibly having scales on his face, though it makes some sense now that he thinks about it. The tips of his hooves slide on the tile below him, hands gripping tighter to his shoulders, and it finally hits him that he is, indeed, leaning rather heavily on Pentious’s body. He yanks his head back, struggling to get his feet under him with how they’re leaning, ears straightening and flicking water in the same motion. “Ah-” His body tenses as he further notices the hands on his sides. _“Je suis desolé,_ er, I mean, sorry. Um. Heh.” He tries for a more sheepish grin.

“It...It’s uh....quite alright...” Pentious’s eyes flick up and down Alastor’s frame, his look of shock not seeming to fade, his hood flared wide open, slowly moving to shift, his coils flexing as they begin to shift more weight to his top half, steadily raising himself up little by little, to the point where he feels his hooves firmly touch the floor.

“I didn’t quite-” He steps back, tightening his grip on him as he starts to slide on the tiles, unable to take his eyes off Pentious’s face and hood. “-see you there.” He huffs, trying to keep his balance steady. “The Eggs stole my clothes _and_ my shoes. Entirely vintage stuff too. Shouldn’t be laundered by anyone but professionals, you know!” Why is he rambling?

“Oh...They probably assumed it was part of the laundry. I forgot to mention to them that you were staying in that room.” Pentious glances down toward his scrambling, shaky hooves, almost seeming to stare for a moment, before his eyes dart away, his coils shifting a bit more as he attempts to stand all the way back up, Alastor’s weight still keeping him leaning back a touch. “Uh..Do you want me to let go, or...?” His cheeks were starting to gain a soft tint to them.

"They broke into the room while I was..." He trails off, not wanting to bring the image to mind, and hesitates a little at the question. "Where's the nearest carpet?"

“Oh, erm..” He looks around for a moment, before his tail gives a soft twitch, and he points a claw towards the dining room door. “In there. Apologiessss, by the by, for the lack of carpeting everywhere. I, uh...wasn’t quite aware you had hooves, and snake sssscales don’t track as well on smoother fabric.”

"Well, it's not like I advertise it or anything." He chuckles, glancing at the distance to the next room. "Think you could guide me over? I can walk, a little, but having something more solid would go a long way. Price I pay for wearing those shoes too often, I suppose." He tentatively let's go of one of Pentious's shoulders, shifting and managing to keep his balance. "Been ages since I've really been on tile either."

“Yes, yes, of course. Wouldn’t want you to fall and break your nosssse.” His claws slowly move back from Alastor’s sides, letting one rest against his back while the other one hovers in front of his chest, ready to catch him. They slowly start to inch their way over to the door, Pentious slithering notably slower in order to keep Alastor from simply falling over.

Alastor carefully moves toward the door, eyes trained on the steps he makes. He chuckles at the comment. "You know, I don't think I've ever broken my _nose_ from falling with this legs. The number of times I fell the day I died, you'd think I would have, but no. Not at all."

“Well, besssst to not tempt fate from making it so, hm?” He chuckles softly right back. His tongue flickers out, and his eyes seem to glance up for a moment. “...Are your earsss supposed to droop like that?”

“Hm?” He feels one twitch a little, then sag forward, almost flopping forward. “Oh, that. No, only when wet. I imagine it’s similar to your hood, if I had to guess. All but hair, but acts like the animal Hell dressed me up as. How long was I asleep by the way? There’s no clock in my room.”

“Oh, well...I wassss just coming into the kitchen for my morning coffee, so, you’ve been asleep for quite a while.” He finally moves his free hand to pull open the dining room door, holding it open so Alastor could step through. “Guesss my worries of you needing rest were correct.”

“Hmm.” Alastor all but trots through, making a bit wider of step as the door is opened, clearing Pentious’s arms and relaxing as he feels carpet under his hooves. “I didn’t feel all too bad, but I suppose the body works that way sometimes.” He turns around, walking backward as he watches Pentious. “So it’s the morning? Hm. I should see about getting my radio over here.”

“Your radio?” He tilts his head ever so slightly, tongue flickering out in what seems to be idle amusement. “Isssn’t that a good few miles away?”

“I’m a radio aficionado,” he laughs, waving a hand at him like he’s being silly. “There’s no such thing as too far away to gather a good radio.” He turns away from him, glancing over the room, and then walks toward the table, glancing over some of the silverware and plates laid out on the table, humming to himself.

“Issss that so?” He looks a bit more amused this time, his tail flicking idly back and forth. “And what makes you say that?”

“I have tricks up my sleeve, Sir Pentious, but it’s not like I’m about to tell you all of them.” He picks up a silver tray, setting aside an empty cream vessel as he looks it over, and then turns back to him, smirking as if enjoying being on the other end of the pool of knowledge. “Unless you have something I could write with on this little thing. Then I could show you.”

“Really now?” Pentious seems to look intrigued to say the least, and he moves to slither back into the kitchen, visibly looking around left and right. “What exactly do I need to give to you?”

“Anything I could feasibly write with!” He pulls the cuff of his shirt up to his fingers, feeling the fabric for a moment, and then shrugging and buffing the silver tray. “Butter, mayonnaise, salad dressing. Anything that decently holds its shape or smears.”

“Butter?” He gives him a bit of a raised eyebrow at that, but soon there’s the sound of a cabinet opening and closing and Pentious comes slithering back in with a knife and a closed butter container. “Thisss better be worth it.”

“I promise you, it’ll be excellent.” His smile glows at him as he watches him through the doorway, pulling a chair out and taking a seat, setting the tray in his lap. “It’s an old trick I learned a while back. Remember when I made all those runes when you were testing me? There’s more uses for it than just combat. And the runes work just as well with butter as anything else.”

“Hmm...Isss that right?” His tongue flickers out again, and he rests a hand on the table, leaning forward ever so slightly to watch.

He holds a hand out for the butter and knife. “Sounds silly, doesn’t it? But magic is one of those versatile things. It doesn’t like rules and boundaries.”

“That is sssomething I’ve come to know, that’s for certain.” He smirks and moves to pass the knife and butter over.

“I have to admit that I’m rather curious about your magic. But then again, everyone is.” He takes the container and knife, cutting out a small slice about the size of his pointer finger and setting it on the dish. He puts the butter on the table, starting to draw out symbols with his finger. “Runes are a bit of a crutch, admittedly, at least, how I use them, for the most part.”

“My magic?” Pentious’s tongue flickers free, and he extends a single claw, pointing it upward, a soft, barely there ball of light brimming up from the tip. “I wouldn’t say it follows the same guidelines as runesss, nor is it explicitly attached to anything. I can, in a sensssse, mold it to however I please. That’s not to say it can do everything, but I found it is _quite_ diversssssse in it’s functions...”

“Such as vaporizing entire blocks of the city?” Alastor raises a brow, watching the light on his fingertip, his own hands still moving to draw out the necessary symbols. He tilts his head, ears twitching. “There’s a lot you could do with light, I hear. It’s a lot more harmful than people would expect.”

“Heheh...Indeed, there is..” He smirks, a small, wicked little smile, and the ball of light on his claw flickers ever so slightly. “Did you know that, with enough pure light energy, it could be enough to fully vaporize a persssson? Turn them into nothing but dusssst and ash?”

“Hardened light creating lasers, or at least what we conventionally consider lasers.” He chuckles, pleased by the brewing sadism on his face. “I read the occasional newspaper, and that’s about as close as any of the scientists down here get to explaining it.”

“Heheheh...” The light on his claws fade away, and his palm opens to show a welling blackness flaring up within it, momentarily spewing forth like a flame before it spawns a single eye, and the familiar shape of a serpent takes place. “Of courssssse, there’s just as much power in the shadowssss.”

“Oh, now _that_ is a bit unusual.” He pauses his hand, taking a moment to flex his wrist where his serpent lays dormant. “I suppose that makes sense, though, given its... fluidity. Shadows _and_ light, huh?” He stares thoughtfully at the eye, then looks over its body. It’s almost thick enough that he can’t see through it. “What else can you use it for?”

“Hmmmm...” Pentious seems to consider that question for a moment, before he suddenly clenches his fist that has the serpent in it, it’s frame flaring up like smoke, and as he opens his palm again, it descends back down and shifts into the form of a blade, dark and heavy and looking quite serrated on the edges. “Weaponsssss do well, in a pinch...” The blade loses shape, and this time the shadows seem to blend around Pentious’s hand, shifting down his arm until it all but covers the scales in shadow. There’s a moment where nothing more happens, and then a large mass of shadow grows out from his arm, forming the shape of a English shield. “As do shields.”

“Well, well, well.” He grins widely, chuckling softly. “That’s rather intriguing, and useful to top!” He reaches a hand out and taps on the shield, finding it solid. “Can you make little shadow puppets and have them spy on things? I’m assuming you can see out of the serpents, given their eye and all.” After a moment, Alastor glances down at his tray and continues writing out the rest of the symbols with the remaining butter on his finger.

“Heheheh...Indeed I can.” The shadow soon shrinks back into the mass lining his arm, which, too, begins to pool back down into the palm of his hand, raising back into the air as a flickering flame. “I can sssee out of every little shadow I can make. That includessss the serpents.”

"Does it take much concentration? You must have hundreds at this point, thousands. More?" He makes a dot in the center and looks back up at him.

“Mmm...” His tail flicks ever so slightly. “It’s less of a consssstant surveillance and more of a flood of background noise. The snakes come with their own built in programming, you could ssssay. They know to lisssten, and to bite when they hear anything from their wearer that countsss as breaking my laws. The snakes hissss, and in that hissing, they alert me, and I ssssend the command forward to _bite down.”_

His eyes widen for a moment, a strange look almost similar to awe, and he straightens his back slightly. "Huh. Background noise. Does it ever bother you? Hearing it for so long? Or did you just get used to it over time?"

“Hmm...I’ve done thissss for long enough that it feels little more like...static. Yesss. Static in the back of my mind. Barely there. It only grows to be blaring when I’m alerted to a traitor.” His claws wiggle softly, letting the flame of shadows dance along his fingertips.

Alastor can't help but chuckle a little at that, the little bits of static in his voice seeming to make a more noticeable appearance. "I definitely can understand static. I find it calming, though I suppose that's me growing up around radios as a child." He brings his hand over the tray, squinting for a moment before the symbols glow a bright red.

Pentious seems to blink at that, and the shadows in his hand quickly snuff themselves out. He leans forward to watch, his hood slowly flickering upwards. “Interesssting...”

"Oh, it gets more interesting, I assure you!" He chuckles, giving him a wink, and then slowly draws his hand up, the glow of the symbols following him and forming a hollow cylinder of light, something slowly filling the space inside. He stops his hand at a certain height, smirks at Pentious, and pulls his hand away with a flourish. The light bursts into little sparkles and fades, revealing an old, vintage radio, well kept despite Hell being Hell. Alastor raises the try for him to see closer. "One perfectly received, 1930s radio, drawn out of silver as one would a rabbit out of a top hat."

Pentious’s head jerks up in visible surprise, his eyes going wide as his hood flares outwards, and he can’t help but stare for a moment, moving to slowly take the radio, lifting it up in his claws for him to observe. “...How intriguing...” He moves to slowly grip the knob that attaches itself to the needle, and gives it a faint twist to turn it on.

"Careful, careful." He starts to make a motion towards him, then sighs at himself and smirks, setting the tray down next to him. The radio flicks on, whirring with static for a moment before the signal clears, the sound of jazz music playing behind a familiar voice.

_"Hahaha! Oh, isn't that just wonderful? A full display of the ineptitude of mankind, all in one measly little hour. Usually I'd ignore requests like this, but I'm glad I picked it up! It's not every day a shoot ends so violently, and definitely not every day the set erupts in flames! Ahahaha!"_

It seems to take a moment for what exactly he was listening to sink in, as Pentious seems to stare down at the radio itself for a couple of seconds before he blinks, his hood twitching, almost seeming to bristle for a moment. “Issss...Isss that _your_ voice?”

“Mmhmm!” Alastor nods, his grin widening. “Right on the money, per usual.” He leans an elbow on the table beside him, resting a cheek against his palm and smiling at him with his fangs showing.

 _“Okay, okay. How about we do a little_ Take Five _with the Dave Brubeck Quartet, maybe sprinkle in a little Cole Porter as we get further into this lovely morning in Hell. I’ve been receiving more requests for a certain still-living star from Earth, so stay tuned for more authentic music here at_ Morning Smiles _radio station.”_

The sound of a soft piano and saxophone spill out of the speakers, gentle enough for the morning hour but certainly enough to help listeners wake up a little more before their coffees are brewed.

Pentious stares down at the speakers for a little bit longer, as if trying to discern the method of how this was possible by looking at the machine’s wooden frame, before he has his eyes narrow, and he sets the radio down to point towards it, glancing at Alastor with an almost amused expression. “I can assssume that you aren’t going to explain how you’re doing that?”

“Mm, I _could,_ but where’s the fun in that?” He crosses one leg over the other as he watches him, reaching toward his radio to pull it closer to himself. “Spilling all my secrets without any bit of effort on your part? That just sounds silly. Maybe if you ask the right questions...”

His tail notably twitches and flickers, his tongue sliding free to slither through the air almost as if he took such goading as a slight against his being, but the grin he wore didn’t so much as twitch downwards, and his eyes narrow even harder. “...Isssss it a recording? You make the record earlier on in the day or the night before and then play it back whenever you’re gone from your home?”

“If that were the case, when would I have been able to? I’ve been all but out of commission since yesterday, and I haven’t a single bit of recording equipment to my name. Valentino’s men smashed it all.” He waves a hand in a playful shrug. “I _do_ have some recordings, but this one is live.”

“Live...” He lets his eyes flick back to the radio again. “...Is it ssssome sort of magical clone or body double? Some sort of arcane replica of yoursssself that you use to run the show?”

“No, no, not at all!” Alastor lets a laugh enter his voice, amused by the idea. “Certainly creative with that one, but that’d take much more effort than necessary. Constant upkeep, I’d imagine.” He gives him a wider, sharper smile, finding Pentious’s guesses entertaining, to say the least. Stumping _the_ Sir Pentious is something he had not expected to have on his bucket list. Nor would he have expected to cross it off.

“Hmmm...” His eyes narrow even more, a hand drifting up to his chin, tail lifting up and flicking back and forth, back and forth, slowly. He glances at the radio, then at Alastor. “...Any chance I could be given a hint?”

“Hmm...” Alastor tilts his head, looking aside as he considers it. “Think more scientifically. It’s much more simple than you’re making it out to be.”

“Hmph. Easssy for you to say...” He huffs softly, but seems to glance back down at the radio again. “...It’sss live, it’s not a recording, and it doesn’t involve magic...” He glances back over at Alastor. “...Remotely controlling the broadcasssst through your mind?”

Alastor raises a brow, pleasantly surprised. “Almost entirely correct! It does involve a little bit of magic, but yes, remotely controlling the broadcast through my mind is a good summary of it.” He points at his temple. “For whatever reason, Hell decided to hardwire my brain for radio frequencies. It’s practically second nature for me. All I have to do is think what I want said, and it goes out into the ether! Fairly certain it’s attached to my voice box in _some_ way, but I’ve never gotten around to dissecting myself to make sure.”

“Really now?” He glances back toward the radio again, his tongue flicking out a bit more thoughtfully this time. “From my undersssstanding, the mind is a fickle thing, though. And if you’re commanding what the radio broadcasssst says through it...” He glances back at him. “How exactly do you keep yourself from accidentally broadcasssting everything in your head? Your thoughtssss, your emotions, that ssssort of thing?”

He raises his hands up in another shrug. “How do we know to not say everything on our mind? I can tell you it _feels_ like I’m speaking on different frequencies, as simple as pressing an On Air button, even.”

“Hmmm...Odd. But fasssscinating, I will admit.” He glances back down at the radio again, eyes narrowing once more. “...Can you keep it going in your ssssleep?”

“Oh, certainly! That’s simple, really, though I _do_ tend to leave it to music at that time of night. Dreams apparently leak into my kind of magic easier than regular thoughts, and it’s led to _quite_ the interesting results by the time I wake up.”

“Interessssting...” His tongue flicks out a bit harder, but then he lets out a soft chuckle. “I mussst admit, that’s quite impressive. Quite unique, in fact. I can’t recall any other demon having an ability like _that_ before.”

“Well, it _is_ the reason I’m _a,_ if not _the,_ top tier radio broadcaster in the Pentagram.” Alastor gives him a winning smile, straightening in his seat at the praising. “I technically run multiple stations _and_ I can hijack almost any radio or frequency I come across. Multiple voices as well; that accent from last night wasn’t _just_ for show.”

“Hehehe. Oh, really?” He raises a brow, eyes narrowing a bit more. “What other accentsssss can you do? Please, I am quite curious.”

“I could do the upper class British accent, simply have to-” He mimics holding a tea cup as he stands, putting on a snobbish expression that is entirely ruined by his smile. “Have to mimic the British news broadcasters of my youth, with all their crikey and blimey and bloody hell. But!” He leans toward him, his grin curling as his eyes glow a slightly brighter red. “I could do you one better.”

Alastor takes a step back, already looking smug, and clears his throat. A round of static and hisses plays through him and he trills his fingers together. “What would you ssssay if you could talk to yourssself for once? Or get a message out for all those pesssky little vermin lingering on your streetss?”

Pentious’s eyes widen a touch at the sound of his own voice suddenly crawling past Alastor’s throat, the snake hiss and all tinging a few of his words and somehow dripping with malice, and he can’t help but let out a slight laugh, a grin curling up on his lips as the tip of his tail lifts up to thump on the floor. “Good god, my accent has really been worn down over the centuriessssss, hasn’t it? I guessss that’s what I get for living around American folk for so long.”

“Haha! Oh, pleassse, you’d have to be a god to keep from losing _sssome_ of your accent down here.” Alastor’s voice comes out still similar to Pentious but not at all in his typical flow or tone, the laugh all too much Alastor and nowhere near as boisterous as the real thing. He clears his throat again and chuckles. “You have a rather interesting voice to mimic, I must say.”

“Isss that so? How does it feel, to take my voice and make it your own?” His eyes narrow a bit more. “Doessss it feel odd? Affect your throat or how it feels to you in any way?”

“Hmm, it’s a bit of a strain, but I’ve done worse for much longer.” He waves a little and takes a few steps closer. “It’s very much like flipping a switch, honestly. Adjust a few knobs here, a few keys there, and the rest is acting! It certainly feels like I’m filling a hefty pair of shoes, though.” He blinks, and glances at Pentious’s tail, then laughs at himself. “Or perhaps a top hat instead.”

“Heheheh...Perhaps..” Pentious moves to adjust his bow tie a touch. “I believe, if I concentrate a bit, I can..” He clears his throat, then begins to speak in what is quite clearly a more invigorated and posh British accent, though it is a bit shaky thanks to his lisp leaking through. “Tesssting, testing. Ah, there we go. Lovely, quite lovely.” He glances at Alastor with a smirk. “How do I sssound? Do I sound like the standard bigshot prat that deserves to get copped a mouse?”

Alastor’s ears flick up, somewhat surprised to hear his voice more ‘properly’ British, and he can’t help but giggle a little, knowing, if his history is correct, that _this_ would have been how Pentious sounded when he spoke with that ill-fated Prime Minister. “Oh, my oh my! You would _certainly_ blend right in with them on a show, that’s for sure! Oh, now isn’t that a thought? Guess which voice is a popular celebrity. I’ll have to keep that in mind for the radio.”

“Heheheh. I ssssuppose so.” His eyes narrow playfully, and this time his voice slips back into a more normal tone. “Would you believe me if I said _that_ is, in fact, _not_ my original accent?”

“Oh?” He tilts his head. “Another factoid the history books got wrong?”

“Indeed.” He chuckles again. “That accent I just took on is known as The Queen’s English. Meant to be sssspoken by the noblemen and capitalistic frontrunners at that time. It was one that I actually had to teach mysssself how to use; turns out the prim and proper rich tend to take ssssomeone such as myself quite the bit more seriously if I sound as “educated” as they are.” He arches his claws in air quotes at that, rolling his eyes for a moment, before chuckling. “Believe me when I say that it took a while to perfect. Felt like my tongue would damn near twissst into a knot.”

Alastor blinks at that, quiet for just a moment as a somewhat more genuine smile crosses his face, less rigid and more elastic. “I can actually relate to that quite a bit. Used to have the ol’ Cajun accent, the stereotypical-” He points upward, eyes closing as any British influences leave his voice, leaving it quite notably Southern Louisiana. “-talkin’ ‘bout the gators out der in da bayou, kinda _alors pas_ from the French.” He opens his eyes again, holding Pentious’s gaze. “But the Mid-Atlantic is more preferred for the radio, of course.”

“Mmm. I see.” He nods softly, his tail twitching a touch. “I mysssself took on a more...” He trails off before he offers a light shrug. “What they would describe as a less educated sssort of accent. One meant for the working class and the poor..” He trails off, clearing his throat again, before beginning to speak, his accent much more different than before, less audibly posh and more clumped together. “Mosssst folks would call this type of talk Cockney. It’s quite diverse in how it sounds, and, admittedly, does come with quite a bit of funny little phrases that don’t tend to make a lick of sense to anyone else.”

Alastor blinks, taking a short moment to parse the words, which seem to almost glide into each other, some of the softer consonants almost seeming to disappear entirely. “Oh, I almost like that. It’s strange coming from you, since I’ve never really...” He taps his chin. “Can you teach me?”

“Teach you?” He raises a brow slightly, and this time his accent drops. “You’d want to learn? Why?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He straightens, bringing a hand to his chest. “I’m an actor and the tool I use is my voice! Best to keep it sharp and well-tuned.”

“Heheh...Well, lucky for you, I already know the ins and outs of teaching an accent to someone; I was once taught mysssself after all.” He chuckles again, heartedly, his tail thumping against the floor once more. “Would you want to get sssstarted?”

•••

When Valentino wants to sleep, he sleeps. It could be any time of day, in a bustling club house or a library, with or without a bed, and he’d manage it, somehow. It’s a little known fact that he doesn’t advertise, but if you get close enough to his inner circle, it’s quite clear and obvious. If you’re somehow closer than the rest of that inner circle, you may, potentially, learn of another of his little secrets: he sleeps better with another body near him.

That happens to be the situation Vox is in, laying beside the number one mob boss in all of the Pentagram, on his giant ass, fifteen-foot diameter bed, crowded with pillows. The same mob boss that very well might have a crush on him, who currently is drooling into a pillow and who is very clearly _naked_ because he frankly doesn’t give a shit. Luckily enough, the blanket covers most of him, and Vox has the opportunity to lay on top of the blanket as some made up boundary between the both of them.

Vox had honestly not been exactly _tired_ after they both got driven back to the mansion, he rarely was after he hooked himself up to a grid and left his body behind to hang dry like a fresh suit to put on, but Val had been insist that he at least lie down, considering the fact that he had massive wires plugged into his spine for a good couple hours. Even now, Vox couldn’t tell if it was just some ploy to get him to lie next to him so he could sleep or if it was genuine concern, and it was probably shaping up to be both. He could hear the steady, heavy breaths of the man’s chest, rising up and down, up and down, and he idly wondered how many people down here heard that same breathing when they woke up from an exhausted slumber, heard and felt the deep beat of his heart within his chest from where their heads rested. It was a thought that had his claws idly curl in on themselves as he lays there, facing away from Val’s frame, his head firmly balanced on his left side of the screen’s frame, a position that wasn’t the most comfortable on his neck but definitely much better than laying on his back in this sort of position. He didn’t want to risk catching glimpses of Val’s naked skin. Didn’t want to stare. 

...Did he?

It’s almost impossible, as someone who lives between the southern and central areas of the Pentagram, to not see _some_ salacious photograph or advertisement of Valentino. He’s a mob boss, yes, but he also knows how to sell his best selling product, and he isn’t shy about offering himself in that place. Monthly pole dancing, drag shows, discreet sex work with the upper class and nobility of Hell - it was all whispered about, sometimes openly discussed, on the streets as well as in conference rooms. Sometimes Valentino opened those conversations himself, making it exactly known how much he doesn’t care what dirt anyone else _thinks_ they have on him. He’s gotten himself more pin-ups and pornographic calendars than even his most talented sex workers too. So, yes, Vox already had seen _plenty_ of Val without even meaning to, but...

He sighs softly, recalling Ventriloquist’s words to him. If Valentino _is_ crushing on him, and that’s why he’s been helping him so much, then it wouldn’t be a good idea to stare so much. He didn’t want to make things awkward, didn’t want to be wrong or overstep boundaries. He wouldn’t even know what to say if he was caught staring.

The thought of such a thing, of being caught staring at the man when he sleeps, is enough to have his screen crackle with the faintest bit of a flush, his wires growing warm and his antenna buzzing with a sudden crackling increase of energy, and he lets a hand lift up to slide down his face. “God damn it...” Why did these ideas have to plague him now? Why was he thinking about Val’s crush on him _now_ all times? Was it the fact that the man had been sitting there for hours on end, watching him to make sure he was ok? Was it what Ventriloquist said that was making him see things that he wouldn’t have seen before? _Was_ there anything even there? Or was he just grasping at shadows? Trying to see something that didn’t exist?

Valentino could be infuriatingly hard to read, could be flippant, and generally had the best poker face Vox had seen in quite some time, and he had known some pretty good poker players. Maybe Ventriloquist was wrong about all of this. Or maybe she was _trying_ to fuck with him. He’s new, he’s well-known, he’s easy to spot in a crowd, and there’s plenty of people who’d want to see any and all of his alliances, particularly with Val, crumble and burn. Even if he _did_ have feelings for the guy, he’d be risking a lot if he’s misreading the situation. It’d be utterly embarrassing, bare minimum.

“Hmm.” Valentino shifts onto his side, one of his arms splaying on the bed and his knuckles brushing Vox’s back. 

Instantly, the flushing warmth that was starting to grow within his screen instantly begins to _bloom,_ and he feels his antenna crackle, his claws momentarily sputtering with fizzling pops of discharge as they clench down. The hand that was touching his back wasn’t moving, wasn’t shifting, resting against his skin like a lingering flame, and he couldn’t help but curse himself out at the fact that he had chosen to take his shirt off when he had laid down. All he could feel was Val’s hard claws against his skin now, so sharp, so deadly, so _warm._ Fucking hell, he could have gotten up when Val fell asleep, or at least laid down a bit further away. He shifts a little, trying to quietly inch away from the fingers touching him, and Val makes a slightly louder noise, curling up behind him and leaning closer toward him, his forehead resting between his shoulder blades and an arm falling loosely over his waist.

Fuck. _Fuck._ Of course the fucking asshole was a god damn cuddler. Fuck. He feels his face growing even more warm, even more hot, his antenna sputtering and fizzing harder and harder with every passing second like they were about to blow a fuse, and he couldn’t help but lay there, knowing damn well that at this point, the only way he could get away from Val’s touch is to get up from the bed, and that would only wake him up, which was a horrendous idea. He’s seen Val when he’s woken up from a nap unannounced by a couple of bumbling servants, and it usually doesn’t end well, and while he’s certain that the man wouldn’t go so far to do that to him, he still didn’t want to risk anything. He bites his lip to himself, shivering, now feeling Valentino’s breath starting to slide over his skin, warm and deep and so _calm,_ and he swears he can feel his heart doing flips in his chest.

He takes a deep breath himself, trying to think of how he can write this off to Val when he wakes up. Should he joke about it? Maybe tease him a little? That’s basically where they are in their relationship, right? A perfectly normal, entirely non-romantic relationship. One that just so happens to have the both of them in the same bed, almost entirely naked, and now cuddling. It’d almost be cute, if he weren’t so god damned flustered by everything happening. He bites his lip, trying to ignore the heavy, heavy heat that was all but pulsing from his screen, the buzzing build up from all that static making his screen fizzle and crackle like it was close to rupturing a wire. He could feel the warmth of Val’s skin on his hip, just above the line of his waistband, and he could feel his body reacting, shivering, quivering, his blood sparking with interest and his muscles quick to start tightening up, the barest floods of anticipation starting to build, only serving to make his screen starting to burn even harder, swearing he could feel the heat starting to build up in the chassis of his head. He couldn’t deny that a part of him found itself relishing the idea of feeling more of that skin, and the sheer fact that it was there was enough to send his mind into a panic. 

He digs his teeth into his lip even harder, his eyes wide open and sleep the farthest thing from his mind, and he again, makes a slow, careful attempt to slowly lean away from Val’s head, to drag himself away from his arm, despite his body’s own damn protests.

“Hmm, ssffz...” Val makes a noise of discontent and tightens his arms around him, pulling Vox all but flush against his chest, one arm somehow slipping under his body and another looping over his chest. His face presses against the back of his neck, antennae tickling the back of his head even as he continues to mumble nonsensically against him.

 _Fuck._

It’s a wonder that his screen hadn’t broken at this point. He could feel his chassis burning. He could feel the whole of his heart doing flips within his chest, his muscles burning, his mind lingering on the soft presence of what he swore were _lips_ pressing against his skin. He couldn’t move now, couldn’t begin to, and his spine was being held so tightly against Val’s chest that now he could feel his slow, heavy heartbeat, and it was making him all but quiver. He didn’t know what to do, or what to say, if he could say anything, and it was making him start to shudder.

“Mm.” Val’s grip loosens a touch, not enough for him to easily disentangle himself, but enough to appear more relaxed, a waft of breath hitting Vox’s neck in a soft exhale. He nestles his face closer into Vox’s shoulder, exhaling again, a shorter puff, followed by a quick intake of breath and a yawn. “Hahhhmmm... Hm.” His arms tighten around him again and Val nuzzles against his shoulder again. “Mm, wha’ time’s it?”

It took Vox a couple seconds for him to regain his voice, his whole frame trembling at the feeling of Val’s soft skin, at the feeling of those lips, softly nuzzling against his shoulder, able to feel his breath as he mumbles in a sleepy daze. It had him all but breathless, like his lungs were somehow undergoing some malfunction and locking up in his chest, and for a moment, he finds himself unable to say anything, laying there in Val’s arms, his grip having yet to disentangle. The fact that Val wasn’t immediately screaming or leaping back from him was...a sign, if not a soft one. “Uh...4:42.”

Val grumbles a little, then settles down again without saying anything. His breathing starts to even out again, growing more and more quiet, as if he had fallen back asleep, and then he goes still, bringing a hand up to pat at Vox’s shoulder, then his neck, freezing when he brushes the edge of his head. “Shit.” Val pulls his arms back, freeing him from his grip, and sits up blearily, staring at Vox for a moment before flopping onto his back. “Sorry ‘bout that. Damn arms.”

“Uhh..” He feels his flush only grow when it becomes more and more clear that Val simply just hadn’t registered who he had been hugging in his sleep, shivering at the feeling of his arms slowly pulling away from his skin. He didn’t move for a few moments, sitting there and taking in the sensation of the phantom warmth of where Val’s arms had been and the lingering heat of what they left behind, before he slowly moves to sit up himself. He turns toward him, his eyes trying their damndest to not look over the bare muscle and skin that he had felt pressed so closely to his spine just few seconds earlier. He was sure he was beet blue in the face, for certain. “It, Uh....It’s ok. I...barely noticed. Was starting to fall asleep myself.”

Val rubs his face as Vox sits up, peeking at him as he starts stammering his way into shrugging the matter aside. He can’t help but smirk, Vox’s screen the predominant source of light in the room. “Mmhmm. You’re a terrible liar, hun. No need to spare my feelings, _or...”_ He gives a sleepy shrug and holds his arms open. “If you liked it.”

 _Oh God._ Was he really...? He sat there for a couple seconds, not moving, and when Val continued to hold his arms out, still smirking, Vox felt his screen all but crackle with heat when he realized that Val was, indeed, offering to cuddle him again. Voluntarily. His claws slowly tightened around the blankets, his eyes continued to stare down at that soft, smug, somehow gentle smirk, those glowing pink eyes, and he found that he couldn’t move. He didn’t know what to do. What would it mean if he leaned down to accept? How would Val take it? Would he think of it as a sign of acceptance? A sign of loving him back if the crush was real? _Was this a sign that the crush was real at all?_ Surely Val wouldn’t just offer something like this to him if it wasn’t. This wasn’t just him being a sleazy bastard. It wasn’t. It couldn’t. This...This felt too intimate. Too close. Too much like a precipice that opened up to a steep drop. 

Unless...Unless this meant nothing and _he_ was the one taking things that way. 

Such a thought made his blood turn icy, made his heart jolt in his chest as if he had been struck, and he finds himself frozen. He doesn’t move for a moment or two, before he turns to start climbing off of the bed, his voice coming out as a mumble. “I need a drink.”

Valentino lets his arms flop onto the bed beside him, humming softly as he watches Vox get up. “M’kay. You know where the stuff is. Don’t die and all that.” He shifts onto his side, slowly pulling a pillow toward himself and wrapping his arms around it.

Vox opens the door to the bedroom and quietly closes it behind him, taking a few precious seconds to walk further away before he lets his hands slide up to drag down his face, clutching it, not caring about any scratches that he might leave behind in the glass. “Fuck. _Fuck._ Fuck, fuck, shit, god damnit, _fuck.”_ His hands finally fall away, and he lets out a heavy huff before he moves to walk across what could accurately be described as the lounge, passing by the couches, the coffee table, the bookshelves, heading straight toward the liquor cabinet. He definitely needed a drink. Needed ten. He didn’t want to think about this anymore. Didn’t want to think about what it all could mean and what it couldn’t mean and if he was just seeing things how he wanted it to.

There’s plenty there. Vodka, whiskey, rum, flavorings. The cabinet below is even a well-hidden minifridge, stocked with ice and other chilled goods. He grabs one of the whiskey bottles, trying to ignore how his hands shake, and plucks up a glass along with it. Fucking _hell,_ taking a nap shouldn’t be this goddamn stressful. He pours the glass half full and takes a hefty swig without any thought paid to ice or additives. Half a second doesn’t even pass before he’s moving to refill his glass again, even more so than the first time. He honestly wondered how differently he could handle things if he was smashed, if his tongue would be loose enough to just straight up spill everything to Val’s face or if somehow in his drunken stupor he’d only make things even worse. He was too mentally exhausted to care, too tired to even give a damn of how monumentally he could fuck up. He just wanted to stop thinking about it. 

He moves to bring the glass to his lips and starts to chug it down, only to pause when he hears a knocking coming from the office entrance, and he swallows down what he has in his mouth before he moves to set the bottle down, grumbling to himself as he begins to walk out of the lounge and into the office. “I’m coming, I’m coming, chill the fuck out already!”

He grumbles to himself, not wanting to deal with anyone and simply wanting to pretend everything was normal, that there wasn’t any giant laser in the sky or that he hadn’t just declined whatever that was in Valentino’s own bedroom. He pulls open the door, watching as the leopard demon standing on the other side flinches at the brightness of his screen. “What is it?”

“It’s-” She raises a hand, scowling at him. “There’s someone at the front door asking for you, and there’s news for Valentino. Can you wake him up?”

“For me?” He raises a brow. “Who the fuck is asking for _me?”_

“She says her name is Velvet.” She lowers her hand after a moment, raising a brow at him. “Are you shirtless?”

“I-“ He almost feels himself flush when he realizes he was in fact without a shirt, but then scowls, his talons visibly starting to crackle with electricity, eyes narrowing into a glare. “How about you shut the fuck up and get that lady up here or else I turn you into a _stain on the carpet?”_

“I, uh-” She steps back, eyes widening. “Yes, right away, sir.” She turns and scampers off, hurrying away and toward the nearest flight of stairs.

“Mm, what the fuck are you yelling about?” Valentino’s voice comes from the door to the lounge, and when he turns, he sees him wrapped up in a robe, looking groggy and annoyed.

Vox for a moment, only stares, the aching need to start drinking his misery away only increasing at the sight of that soft little scowl that was on Val’s face, his heart skipping a beat, before he merely sighs and shuts the door, moving to grab what was left of his drink and draining it down. He then places the glass back down, and moves back toward the lounge, moving to push past him to head toward the bedroom. “Someone I know is here to see me. That’s it. Something else about some news for you too. But the more important thing is our new guest, so why don’t you go put some pants on?”

Val lets out a small grumble as he passes, glancing after him, then back at the glass before he rolls his eyes and turns to follow him. “You do know I usually _don’t_ wear pants, right?” He rubs at his face, glancing at the liquor cabinet and spotting the still-open bottle of whiskey.

“I’m not having you give your introductions to one of my friends when you’re buttass naked under a bathrobe, just put on some fucking pants!” Vox yells from the bedroom, no doubt trying to find a shirt to put on.

“Geez, yeesh, calm down. It’s barely five in the fucking morning.” Val walks into the room, fumbling for a moment to flick on a light. He squints at the soft orange, glancing around the place before moving toward his closet. “So who’s your friend? And why are they here? You know, at _my_ mansion, not your place.”

“Her name is Velvet, and I dunno. I just got word she’s fucking downstairs and waiting to be brought up. That’s all I know.” Vox was in the middle of pulling on a button up, looking slightly disgruntled, to say the least. It felt as if every single one of his nerves were being pulled tight at once and he didn’t know any way to cool off.

“Okay, okay.” Val raises a hand as he starts sorting through a variety of outfits, looking for one that’s more casual. “You can head down first if you want. I’ll get something reasonable on.”

“..Right, right..” He sighs a touch, letting a hand slide down his screen as he finishes up the last button and moves to walk on out. “Meet you down there.”

“And no killing my grunts.” He pulls a flowy shirt and tights from a hanger as Vox walks out, his voice fading. “Five in the fucking morning....”

“Yeah, yeah...” Vox lets out another heavy sigh as he moves to walk all the way out, from the lounge to the office, letting his hands come up to rub his eyes, a hard lump forming in his stomach, suddenly feeling so damn tired, so damn fatigued. He just hoped Velvet would somehow understand. “Fuck...”

The trip downstairs to the first floor isn’t long, and he passes a string of guards tucked away in the corners and intersections of hallways, a few looking on edge with the surprise visitor. He meanders his way to the foyer, trying to ignore any look he’s given. As he turns the last corner, he spies tousled, bushy hair, parted into two large pigtails, and a poofy dress, tied with a ribbon around the middle and frilled along the edges. She taps her foot on the ground, impatient.

He can’t help but let a soft smirk lift up his face at the sight, moving to cross his arms. “You’re never gonna change that god damn outfit, are you?”

Velvet jumps, startling for a moment before her face lights up. She giggles and all but leaps at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding even as he stumbles. “Oh my God, Voxy! It’s been ages!” She pulls back to return his smirk. “And no, never will I _ever_ change this dress. There’s simply _nothing_ better!”

“Heheh. Of course there isn’t.” He can’t help but chuckle, playfully moving to give her hair a soft tussle. “What the hell brings you over to my side of the woods anyway? Last time I checked you went off to go looking for jobs or some shit. I haven’t seen you since ‘56.”

“Yeah, well.” She huffs and lets go of his shoulders, dropping down the few inches she had been hovering against him. “That annoying snake man shot my squad to smithereens. At least, I think that’s what happened.” She pulls her arms back, crossing them in front of her chest. “The prick somehow had defensive measures, from an entire _ocean’s worth_ of desert away! Ruined all my fun.”

Vox blinks for a moment, frowning, before the full weight of what she said hits him, and he moves to grip her shoulders. “Woah, woah, woah. Back up. Are...Are you talking about Pentious?”

“Big airship guy?” She points at the ceiling, raising a brow at him. “Yeah, him. He shot that big glowy beam at Europe. Pinpoint accuracy, blew up his own factory. I nearly _died,_ but, you know, comes with the territory.” She frowns at him. “Have you been drinking? Your breath reeks.”

Vox feels his jaw drop a touch, feels his blood all but chill in his wires, and for a moment, he can do little else but stand there before he finally moves to grip Velvet by the shoulder and starts to push her toward the stairs. “You’re gonna wanna come with me. We can talk more upstairs.”

“Huh?” She glances back at him, moving as he guides her. “Why? What’s upstairs?”

There’s a tired sigh at the end of the hall. “Are we heading back upstairs?” Valentino huffs, clutching a cigar between his teeth, clad in a blue and pink shirt with large flairs from his elbow to his wrist and jeans with a similar flair at the bottom, just barely hiding leather boots.

“Yes, we are, because _you_ need to fucking hear this!” Vox gives Val his best _this is serious_ glare. He then turns to glare toward the other goons that were standing around the lobby, who quickly move to avert their gazes.

“Okay, but do we have to go back up to my room, or can we go to the kitchen for coffee while we all chat or whatever this is?” He points vaguely at the both of them, tired and clearly not happy with being pulled around from room to room.

Velvet blinks at him. “Wow, you really are tall.”

Val squints at her, then lets out an annoyed breath and starts walking past them. “Kitchen. Now. I’m not dealing with the stairs right now.”

“Ugh. Fine.“ Vox sighs and moves to follow Val’s path. “I just don’t want anyone listening into this, ok? This is some serious shit.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He waves two hands by his side.

Velvet hurries to follow, glancing between them. “I feel like there’s some, uh, tension in the air. Am I the only one noticing that or...?”

“I woke up. That’s all that happened.” Val turns down a hallway and pushes a large door open, covering his mouth and holding his cigar as he yawns.

Vox can’t help but sigh a touch, lifting a hand up to rub his eye. “In his defense, Velvet, you kinda came by really fucking early. We’re both kinda really tired.“

She raises a brow. “I literally had to trek through the desert to get here. I haven’t slept in days.”

Valentino glances over his shoulder at the both of them. “Your name is Velvet?”

“And you’re Valentino, mob boss extraordinaire.” She points at him vaguely. “I like your shirt.”

He can’t help but huff out a laugh at that. “Thanks, kid.”

“Not a kid. Pretty sure she’s fucking way older than you.” Vox can’t help but crack a grin at that.

“Yeah, I’m some 1800s stuff.” She shares with Vox’s smirk. “I actually remember when Pentious fell. Bodies dropping left and right. Practically raining blood.”

“Huh.” He glances back at her again, then moves to grab a mug from a cabinet and walks toward a certain corner of the room. “And you know Vox how?”

“I used to be a socialite, and then he stole the TVs.” She shrugs simply.

“She and I actually knew each other before I went and met you. She had left on some kinda business hunt after I went and took on the whole TV trade, and...” He trails off, then glances to her. “Well, tell him what you just told me.”

She hops up on a nearby counter, watching Val as he starts brewing some coffee in a neat little machine. "I was over in Europe, around Spain, I guess, and, uh, well, I was near the giant laser blast that came from here. I'm fairly certain it was Pentious. Nearly blew up his own factory trying to kill me."

He tips a spoonful of coffee grinds into a filter and slowly turns toward her. "What?"

“Told you you needed to hear this.” Vox lets out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his screen. “That giant fucking blast. That _magic._ It was him. It was all him. He somehow has the power to fucking launch a sniper’s bullet of explosive power all the way across the damn continents.”

"Wait, wait, wait. Wait. Wait." Val closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, hands waving. "That blast was massive, both in size and in power. And you say he _nearly_ blew up his factory?" He points at Velvet.

She nods, pigtails bobbing and legs swinging in front of her. "Yeah, it's pretty simple stuff for him, I bet. Lots of power, lots of distance, thin end bullet thing. Like those missiles that fall apart." She pouts. "And he got his aim almost perfect too."

“How the fuck did you even get out of there, anyway? Like...What the fuck _happened?_ I saw it up above on a feed on the power grid, yeah, but, like...A first person perspective would help too.”

"Oh, I just dodged it." She shrugs. "Yeah, his stuff is fast, but." She chuckles. "Not _so_ fast."

Valentino stares at her. "Are you fucking with me?"

"No, I just crossed almost four thousand miles in under eighteen hours without any stop and running on empty." She rolls her eyes.

"Three thousand six hundred miles." Val continues stare at her for a moment, then continues prepping his coffee. "What else about the incident? Why were you there?"

"Well, the guy keeps things locked up tight in his factories. I wanted to see what was in there, so I brought a few people to take down the defenses. We were nearly in, and then - bam!" She claps her hands together, kicking her feet out. "Bright light. Explosion. Ringing ears. Probably a concussion. Massive crater."

“Did you manage to see any of what was inside his factory? What happened to your group?” Vox can’t help but tilt his head a touch.

"Oh, they all got incinerated. No doubt their ashes have been collected or whatever." She exhales and slumps a little. "I didn't see anything. We didn't get past his doors, but we were close. That's probably why he took the shot. It's the closest I've gotten to breaking in."

“...Fuck...” Vox can’t help but let a hand drag down his screen yet again. “Fuck....How long had the bastard been sitting on power like that? How long did he have it for? How long did he fucking keep it secret?”

Velvet stretches her leg out and nudges Vox's side. "Come on, I've given you the run down before. The guy has _been_ a master of electronics since before he died. He has enough architectural prowess to rebuild up the electrical grid from the ground up. He's practically Lucifer's right hand man when it comes to energy in the city. He's _had_ lasers for decades now, but he really only started showing the good ones in the fifties."

"So you think he's had this since before then?" Valentino hits a few buttons and turns back to the two of them, crossing his arms.

"No, that's silly." She leans forward. "I definitely think he's been working on this since then, though. He's had _the technology_ to do it, and the know how, but he's never used this before. He only uses weapons when he knows they'll work and when he knows it's a good time to use it, especially for debuts. This may as well have been his test run."

“You think he’s planning something with that kind of power?” Vox glances up at her at that, chin resting in his palm. “The man has giant airships, we know that much, and he can fucking wipe out entire streets with only his god damn finger, and now, he has the power to blast craters into the earth from thousands of miles away. No one builds up an arsenal like that on a whim.”

"Well, yeah! I think it's pretty clear what he's after. It's not like it's that hard to see." Velvet gives him an unimpressed look, then turns to Valentino, who merely shrugs. "Really?"

"Hey, I try to keep away from him for a reason." Valentino raises his upper hands. "If he oversteps, I correct him. But whatever he's doing, I want nothing to do with. The guy's insane as far as I'm concerned."

“My only concern is what he might be fucking planning that could involve _us._ He shot that beam right over our fucking heads. If he ever gets the idea to actually _launch_ an attack on us..” Vox can’t help but sigh. “Well, I don’t fucking know. I haven’t seen the guy in action. All I know is, we’d probably be fucking trashed.”

"You probably would be." Velvet's tone hardens. "But you two aren't his targets. Yet."

Val exhales. "Thats precisely why I-"

"He's going for the King." She locks eyes with both of them, quiet for a moment. "He's a world conquerer. It's what he's wanted since he was in his twenties. He couldn't get Earth, so he's sticking it out here. That's why he's been so slow and steady, and why he's showing off his shiny weapons. He doesn't care about _either_ of you because his game is bigger."

There was silence for a long moment, heavy, palpable, before Vox finally manages to speak up, his eyes wide. “You...Are you serious? You seriously think he’s trying to murder the fucking _Devil?”_

"You don't need that kind of power or weaponry to point at some random demon on the streets." She puts her hands on her hips. "He can already tear apart city blocks with his fingertips. I hear he has jet packs now too. And sure, international combat is nice, but imagine if he aimed that laser somewhere closer. Say, a certain palace just a few miles within the origin of his weapon."

“But he’s the fucking _Devil!_ Satan! The Lord of All Evil, all of that shit! Pentious may be a fucking maniac, but what makes you think he’d be able to touch Lucifer at all! He couldn’t even begin to go toe to toe with anyone from his fucking Court!”

Velvet merely smirks at him, leaning forward and she chuckles darkly. “Are you so sure about that?”

Valentino exhales, closing his eyes. “His court’s barely a fraction of what it used to be, that’s for sure. And that’s since the twenties.”

Velvet nods at him. “And both of you are post-1900, so you’ve never even seen any of the larger scale attacks Lucifer’s had to deal with. Granted, nothing really stuck, but there were some close calls.” She leans even closer, almost conspiratorially. “The guy _bleeds._ Did you know that?”

“And how exactly do _you_ know that? If the fucking _Devil_ was _soooo_ easy to murder, then why the hell hasn’t someone usurped him already? He’s a god damn _fallen angel,_ he’s not even a full blown demon. He’s on a completely different level than any of us.” Vox can’t help but let his eyes narrow. “Call me skeptical, but this sounds like bullshit.”

“Hey, have _you_ ever killed an angel before?” She pulls back and crosses her arms, pouting. “You’ve always had it nice and cushy down here, since you’re so cute and weasel your way into everything.”

“Angels do bleed, that’s definitely something I know.” Val sighs softly, brows furrowed, and then points his cigar at Vox. “And you are being overly skeptical. Demons out of the 1800s don’t up and tell anyone anything and everything about their past. If they tell you something, listen. _Especially_ if you’re on good terms with them.”

Velvet smirks at him. “So you do have a brain in there. I like that.”

“Fuck off. I’m teaching him how to not die down here.” He turns away as the coffee machine behind him stops humming. “The point is: listen to your allies if there’s no reason for them to lie to you.”

“Hmph.” His eyes narrow slightly, but then he shakes his head. “I just can’t fucking believe it. It’s too crazy. Too batshit insane. We’re talking about the same being that literally created all evil and tried to fucking kill _God._ I doubt that any of us, not even all _three_ of us, could even so much as put a finger on him.” His eyes glance toward Velvet. “And how are you so confident that Pentious is trying to do that in the first place? How do you know that Lucifer is apparently just as killable as the rest of us? You sound _really_ fucking confident here.”

She exhales and pulls her legs up onto the counter, sitting with her legs crossed. “When it comes to Pentious, it’s just a hunch really. If I were him, I’d try it! He’s also crazy enough to try it. I mean, we’re talking about a guy who would shake hands with mayors and governors before either killing them or indebting them to his cause. _And_ we’re talking about the guy who made all those fancy networks that you can zip around in. He’s more than he appears, and he _clearly_ has a larger game plan. And when it comes to Lucifer?” She splays her hands out in front of her. “Why do you think he tries to regulate angel weapons down here? It’s practically the only thing he tries to keep in moderation They _can_ kill him, and people _have_ tried to use them to kill him and his court. He _seems_ all powerful, but he’s really just another suped up demon with crazy strong powers.”

“Ok, but...Why even tell us this in the first place?” Vox crosses his arms, leaning up against a wall, frowning. “If Pentious is trying to fucking gun after the Devil, what can we even fucking do? How the fuck could we even hold a candle to him if what you’re saying is true?”

“Yeah, I’ve gotta agree with Vox on that, sweet cheeks.” Val turns back around and sips at his mug, grimacing at the taste of black coffee. “If he wants to kill the King, why should we care?”

“Because Lucifer hasn’t been outright killing demons for over a hundred years, from what I understand. Maybe closer to two hundred. _And...”_ She pats around her dress, finding a pocket and digging into it, retrieving a couple folded photographs and handing them over. “I don’t think Pentious is playing by the rules here.”

The photos each show the city skyline. One is very clearly older, slightly degraded, showing one lonely airship hovering over skyscrapers. The next, three, all the same as the first. The next, five. The last, _dozens,_ all spread out, some cut off on the edges.

Vox, blinking, slowly moves to pick them up, staring down at them for a couple moments. “...What the fuck are these?”

“Photos of Pentious’s aerial pursuits from 1889 to today.” She points at the last two. “This one was in 1941. And this one was 1942. Shortly after, he started shooting lasers from his hands, before he even perfected laser weaponry.”

“So what does that mean?” Val looks over Vox’s shoulder at them. “He figured something out. Okay. He’s an inventor.”

Velvet gives him an unimpressed look. “Between 1888 and 1942, he _never_ showed signs of having magic.”

“No, you get their grimoire. It’s different.” Val frowns. “I never really paid attention to him until ‘42, when Lucifer officially ordained him an Overlord. I always just figured he had been hiding his stuff from the public.”

“That’s one theory, but it doesn’t make sense to me. Hide magic this powerful for fifty years?” Velvet shakes her head. “I think he’s getting his magic from somewhere else, which means he’s _not_ as strong as he makes himself out to be.”

“Are you seriously saying someone is _loaning_ him magic? Who the fuck would even do that? And why? Also, I dunno about you, but I’d say being able to blow craters into the earth with a single finger is more than enough proof that he has magic. And a fuck ton of it at that.”

“I’m not saying he _doesn’t_ have magic or that he can’t use it, but...” She points at the photos. “All of a sudden he had a boom in power! And it doesn’t make sense, and I’ve been trying to figure it out. Maybe he had magic the whole time, but he _still_ got a boost somehow. I don’t know how, but if you can undo that boost, then maybe...”

“Maybe what?” Val sips his coffee. “We can cut him off and tear him out of the sky?”

“Yeah. Why not?” She raises a brow at the both of them.

There was a pause of silence that fell over them all, and Vox can’t help but glance up toward Val’s face, seeing that his expression was tighter than it usually was. It was the same face he wore when mulling over how to order up his men to reduce the chances of drug raids, or planning how to snuff out word of a mutiny from a particularly pesky grunt. It was the face he made when he was concentrated, rationalizing everything out. He glances back down at the photos, then back toward Velvet, frowning. “...There’s something I still don’t understand. Where the fuck did you get these photos? Why come here now? Why come back after being gone for a good 5 years to try to rope us into a _coup?_ You’ve _never_ talked about shit like this, and now all of a sudden you jumped the gap from fashion celebrity to planning to usurp Pentious?”

“Just because I don’t _talk_ about it doesn’t mean I haven’t been looking into it for a while now.” She holds a hand out for the photos. “I took those photos myself. I like keeping track of Overlords, and I like keeping things running smoothly.”

“And getting into a pissing match with Pentious stops Pentious from getting into a pissing match with Lucifer, right?” Valentino narrows his eyes on her. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Your worried Lucifer is gonna blow holes in the social order of Hell and it’s gonna be all out war everywhere if Pentious gets to do what he wants.”

“Well-”

 _“And-”_ He points at her. “-he’s been doing everything unchecked for so long, except when it comes to Vox and I stepping on his territorial grabs.”

Vox can’t help but snap his gaze toward Val at that, feeling his jaw drop ever so slightly. “..Are you actually _considering_ this?”

“Fuck no. It’s a suicide mission and I get nothing out of it.” He takes a sip of his coffee, cringes at it, then sets it down before finally pushing away from his counter and toward a fridge, grumbling about having to move.

“Come on, it’s not _suicide,_ it’s-” Velvet pauses, going quiet, looking aside for a moment.

Valentino pulls out a carton of creamer along with half a chocolate cake, and walks it back over. “It’s a death trap. I’m not getting involved.”

“What if you wait until he’s weaker then?” She gives him a serious look. “Let him whittle himself down and _then_ strike.”

Vox glances toward Val as he starts to move, then back toward Velvet, his eyes narrowing when she suddenly stopped short. “...It’s what?” 

She blinks at that, glancing toward him. “What?”

“It’s not suicide, it’s-....what? You didn’t finish the sentence, and now all of a sudden you’re telling us to wait instead of launching a full assault?”

She tightens her arms in front of her chest. “Well, if you’re not comfortable attacking him _now_ or doing anything to stop him, then the next best thing is to let him do whatever until a better time comes.”

Valentino sets the creamer beside his coffee and the cake beside Velvet, leaning down to her height and bringing a hand up to grab her chin. “I don’t think you want to lie to me while you’re in my house, pumpkin.”

She pulls her face away and bats his hand aside, pushing herself back and away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, don’t act coy.” He scowls down at her. “You have no reason to be here, asking for _my_ help, when you could have just waited for Vox at his tower or asked to speak with him alone so he could hear you out first.” He pokes her in the chest. “You’re all too eager for _both_ of our help, you’re flip-flopping on what _you_ want, and you’re all too certain about everything you’re saying, even for a demon your age. And don’t get me started on the photos. You just ran from Spain with those in your pocket? Nice fucking try, but I’m not an idiot.”

Vox can’t help but feel a cold, icy chill slowly run down his spine when he realized what Val was saying, what he was pointing out, and his claws slowly curl into fists by his sides. He pushes himself away from the wall, moving to cross his arms, eyes narrowing in a glare. “...You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

She glances between the two of them, swallowing roughly. “I - _no,_ I-”

“It’s five in the fucking morning, and I’m _tired_ of being bullshitted.” Val grabs her chin again, locking eyes with her and lowering his glasses, a pinkish red glow coming from them. “Who the _fuck_ are you working for?”

•••

“I mean, I _could_ make muffins, if you want, but it would take a while. Not that I’d mind, but I’m rather hungry right now is all.” Alastor, re-acquainted with his shoes (the Egg that brought them had almost apologized, which apparently meant a lot), peruses Pentious’s fridge, nudging milk and fruit containers and bread one way or another to see what else is in stock. “I could make eggs. Omelette, sunny side up, wraps, egg muffins? No, egg muffins are just mini quiches. But I could make them. Toast. Ooh, BLTs with egg. Haven’t had that in a while.” He glances over his shoulder at Pentious. “What do you think?”

Pentious, who merely held a steaming coffee mug in his hand, can’t help but chuckle softly to himself, his tail idly seeming to flick against the floor, hair twitching a touch. “Would you believe me if I ssssaid I prefer my eggs scrambled? Though I will admit, toast definitely does sound pleasant at the moment.”

“Scrambled eggs then!” Alastor beams at him, then ducks back into the fridge to pull out the egg carton, milk, and butter, setting them on the counter beside the fridge. “Scrambled eggs are perfectly fine, in my opinion. I actually find them a bit more challenging than omelettes.” He pulls out a packet of lunch meat, glances at the label, and then pulls out a pack of cheese as well. “Any toppings that you’d like?”

“Hmmm...Sssurprise me. I’m in the mood to try extending my palate a little bit anyway.” Pent lets his gaze slide towards the door, noting that it was open just a crack, and a single beast yellow eye was attempting to peek through. He feels a twinge of anger immediately surge through his temples and he lets himself hiss, his hair flaring up into a hood, and immediately, the door slammed closed and there was the sound of multiple eggs clambering over themselves to get away. Pentious lets out a heavy sigh, a hand running down his face. “Can’t even _eat_ without thossssse things making my blood pressure shoot through the roof...”

“I _am_ rather surprised they’re still around here, given their... tendencies.” He hadn’t told him about the book yet, though mostly because he was hoping to snag it from the eggs at some point. He pulls out an onion, then closes the fridge and moves to glancing through the cupboards, looking for any spices or odd dry foods that he could play with. “I’d have killed them all by now. Maybe used them as fertilizer. Hmm. Well, the shells at least. Protein isn’t very good for composting.”

“A horribly _tempting_ thought, but Nora would have my tail if I did. That, and, well, a good villain ssssstill needs mindless servants to help keep the place tidy. Can’t do all the work myssself, or else I’d never get anything done.” He moves to sip at his coffee, smirking a touch. “Plus it is quite funny to see them pick up a knife and try to tear a demon to pieces with it.”

“Oh? I didn’t think they’d be capable of it.” He chuckles at the thought, a hand pausing over an instant mix packet for onion soup. He pulls it out, then closes the cabinet and moves to the stove. “Have they ever accidentally killed someone before?” He glances back at Pentious as he starts cracking eggs into a bowl, one handed.

“Mmm. Accidentally?” He tilts his head a touch, as if pondering the idea. “...I ssssuppose there was that one time I had one of them up on the roof to fix a patch that had begun to leak during the rain. Damn thing slipped and went tumbling down and landed right on the hired gardener I had brought in to help get the mint bushes back into control. Busssssted his skull wide open.”

“Oh, you have mint growing around here?” His ears straighten, fluffing with the motion. “I always thought it was the best ground cover, if I may say so myself.” He pours some milk into the eggs and starts scrambling them with a fork.

“Indeed. I have an entire herb garden out in the back, along with vegetables and a few fruits. I prefer thingssss a bit fresher. Tends to make everything taste all the more better, does it not?” He lets himself grin a bit more proudly at that.

“Definitely!” He chuckles at that, almost sounding eager. “If I weren’t a radio host, I’d probably have been a gardener. Or a chef _and_ a gardener. Fresh spices are simply to die for! Oh, and do you like your eggs more dry or a bit more wet?”

“Mmm...A bit more wet. Not to the point where they’re runny, but not entirely bone dry either.” He watches Alastor for a moment. “What exactly can you cook? Bessssides eggs, I mean. Heheh.”

“What can I cook?” He tilts his head, shaking some salt and pepper into the eggs and cutting a slice of butter into a pan. “Stews, gumbo, jambalaya, ribs, pork chop, various sandwiches, steaks, bourguignon, tacos, various seafood, fried chicken, beef wellington. To name a few.”

“Quite the culinary expert I have in my kitchen today, hm? I should feel honored.” He sips at his mug of coffee again, smirking. “I mysssself specialize in mostly German dishes. Stewssss especially, though I do occasionally try a few new dishes here and there. Sometimessss I’ll try a bit of Italian or maybe Chinese.”

“I’ve seen a few things of German dishes, plenty of Italian, but I’ve only ever tried to recreate Chinese on my own. I’m more or less self-taught, though, so I suppose there’s a bit of improv to everything I make.” He tips the eggs into the pan, swirling to evenly distribute, and rips open a corner of an onion mix bag and taps some of it out. “I think I know more Indian dishes than anything else, though. Well, aside from French. New Orleans was _quite_ the melting pot of cuisine.”

“Ssso I’ve heard. Heheh. Well, if I ever need a chef, I’ll be sure to ask you firssssst.” He sips his coffee mug again, only to pause when he notices that the door to the kitchen is, once again, slightly ajar. Nora was currently standing in the gap, head tilted to allow a single eye to peek through, and he could just _tell_ there was a massive grin on her face, full of crocodile teeth and all.

“And you haven’t even had a bite to eat. I’m honored.”Alastor chuckles, too busy gently stirring the eggs and watching them sizzle. He picks out some lunch meat, tearing it to little pieces and scattering it about the pan. “I tend to lean spicy, though, so there _might_ be a period of adjustment.”

Pentious narrows his eyes at Nora’s cheeky little smirk before he glances back toward Alastor with a slight chuckle. “Don’t go trying to burn my tongue off. Elssse I just might have to fire you.”

“Excuse me, but I haven’t accepted yet.” He looks back at him and smirks. “So you _can’t_ fire me.”

“I meant fire you from working for me, not from being my chef.” He chuckles a touch harder at the look Alastor was giving him, smirking, trying to show that its all a quip. “Though now I might be considering it.”

“Well, so long as I get to continue cooking!” He adds more salt to the dish, chuckling.

Nora finally knocks on the door, startling Alastor a bit and making him look over again. She gives him a gently bemused look. “I see my instincts were right on where you’d be.”

“Oh, Nora.” He gives her a smile, masking a slight bit of panic as he recalls how they had last left off. “You’re just in time for some eggs.”

“In my defenssssse, I told him to go home but he wouldn’t lissten. He was quite stubborn.” Pentious holds up a hand as if he wants no part in the blame for anything moving to sip his coffee again.

“Well, I suppose keeping him off the street is the second best option.” She sighs and walks further into the room, standing next to Pentious and watching as Alastor turns back to the stove. “I was called up by a rather distraught Niffty. Your note was rather cryptic.”

“I’m not.. used to writing notes.” He waves his spatula slightly, then returns it to the pan. “But I’m fine and doing perfectly well, so there’s nothing to worry about. No fainting, no voices, no pains, no vision troubles. Pentious can tell you! I’ve been entirely normal this entire time.”

“Asssside from the part where he went to take a nap and ended up passing out for over...” There was a slight pause as he moves to pull out his pocket watch to click it open. “....10 hours.”

“You told me to sleep and I did.” Alastor starts laying slices of cheese over the eggs.

“Niffty told me you were a light sleeper, so I highly doubt that’s normal for you.” Nora sighs softly. “I’d like to do a quick check to make sure everything’s _really_ in order, Alastor.”

“How about after breakfast?” He glances back at them. “I’m almost finished with the eggs.”

“Alassstor...” He narrows his eyes slightly. “She wantsssss to help make sure you’re alright.”

“And I’m almost finished with the eggs.” He grins wider at him.

Nora taps her arm. “If I had any _real_ say, you wouldn’t even be standing upright.”

“Hm.” He squints at the both of them, then lets go of the cooking utensils and sets his hands on his hips, turning fully toward them. “Fine, fine. But somebody needs to continue cooking the eggs.”

Pentious lets out a soft sigh and moves to slither toward the oven, moving to pick up the utensils he had been using. “Alright, Alright, I’ll keep watch over the eggs. Now please, let Nora do what she needs to do.”

"Hm." He glances at Nora, then shrugs and walks around the island to stand in front of her. "Okay. What do you need me to do?"

"Sit down, first off." She points at the one stool placed by the island. "And then roll up your sleeves. I want to see if the bruising went down."

"Hmm." He pulls the stool out and sits down, doing as she says and turning his arm this way and that for her. There's still a slight bit of mottling to his skin, a slight spider web pattern where the grey tones come from his elbow, but the speckled pattern is more pronounced there. "Doesn't hurt a bit. No soreness."

Pentious himself was currently nudging and stirring the eggs around in the pan, carefully, wanting to make sure they didn’t grow too dry or too burnt,and after a moment of idle adjusting, the end of his tail lifts upwards, the eyes on that part of his flank blinking open, staring toward the two.

Nora takes his arm, gently, turning it over herself. "Have you taken any medication for it?"

"No, I merely heal rather quickly. And I have a high pain tolerance, I suppose." Alastor's fingers twitch and as soon as she loosens her hold, he pulls his hand away.

"Okay. I might give you something just in case." She reaches into a pouch at her waist, pulling out a small flashlight. "I'm going to check your eyes, alright?"

"Mmhmm." His smile becomes more passive, almost looking annoyed as she flashes the light at him.

Pentious lets his tongue flicker out ever so slightly, careful to keep the both of them within the line of his segmented vision, even as he moves to slowly pull out two plates for the eggs, determining them to be thoroughly cooked. He could tell that the man was tense, at the very least perturbed by being fussed over like that, all his ears twitching and his smile straining in a way that he can’t quite recall seeing before. He can’t recall Alastor having a look like that when they were talking. Dare he say the man had looked more at ease than ever. 

"M'kay... Your left eye looks good. Your right..." She tilts her head to more properly get a look. "No debris. Hm. Your pupil isn't responding much. Can you close your left eye for a moment and tell me how many fingers I'm holding?"

He does so. "Erm. Three?"

"And now?"

"Two."

"Okay, you can open your eye now." She frowns at him. "That was actually Four and one. Could you actually see anything?"

His ears flick. "Didn't I tell you that I'm legally blind in that eye?"

"Alastor."

"Fine, fine. It's like stumbling in the dark. Vague shapes. But it's not much worse than it's always been, I promise."

Pentious can’t help but frown softly at that, and he can’t help but let a hand drift to his chest for a moment, where he had tucked the monocle away in his breast pocket. No wonder he wore one in the first place; he could barely see out of that one eye to begin with. His tail flicks a touch, and he moves to scrape the eggs out of the pan and onto both of the plates. He would give it back soon. Just not now. Not yet. Soon.

"Can you open your mouth for a moment?"

"Ah." His jaw all but unhinges with how wide it goes, and he smirks as Nora startles slightly. "Yike yis?"

"Uh." She lets out a soft sigh, letting herself smile a touch. "Yes. Like that." She flashes the light into his mouth. "Any soreness at all?"

He shakes his head. "Uh-uh."

"You can close your mouth." She turns of the light. "How about your appetite?"

"Starving." Alastor's jaws click as he closes them, all but replicating the sound of a bear's trap. "Hence the eggs."

Pentious can’t help but chuckle at that, shaking his head, though he feels his heart jump a touch in his chest when he saw how wide Alastor’s jaw stretched, moving to turn around with both plates of eggs, smirking. “Ssssso impatient when it comes to food, hm?”

"Time should always be made for food!" He beams at the observation. "Especially breakfast."

"And how about yesterday?" Nora tucks her flashlight away. "Did you eat anything?"

"Breakfast, yes. Steak and eggs. Fell asleep the rest of the day."

Pentious moves to set the plates down on the island, picking up his fork from his own plate and stirring the eggs around a touch to disrupt them and cause the steam to dissipate. He pauses after a moment and then he glances up toward Alastor. “Wait, what? You should’ve told me! I would’ve let you eaten before you went to go and sleep!” 

Alastor blinks at him, then chuckles sheepishly. “I suppose the thought, er, didn’t cross my mind at the time.” He spears a few bits of egg and shovels them into his mouth.

“You must’ve been more tired than expected.” Nora watches him for a moment. “Well, you seem about alright, so far. I’ll give you some aspirin for the bruising, and there’s a bit of inflammation in your throat.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Guh. I swear you’re going to give me a headache at thisss rate.” Pentious rolls his eyes slightly before he moves to pop his own mouthful of eggs into his mouth, and for a moment, he seems to pause, eyes going slightly wide as he chews, swallowing after a couple of seconds. “...Wow. That is...quite good.”

Alastor beams, swallowing and pointing his fork at him. “I thought you’d like it. Nothing too crazy, perfectly bland for the Brit in the room.”

“I-You-I, out of all the things you could call me, _am not bland!”_ His hood flares up a touch and he lets out a huff, turning pointedly away from Alastor and no longer facing him, mumbling softly. “Calling the killer of the Prime Minister _bland,_ how dare you.”

Nora can’t help but snort a little at the unexpected slight and Pentious’s reaction. “Oh dear.”

“Hahah! I kid, I kid. Had to get something out there. The other half of my job is comedy and things were getting too stoic for my liking.” Alastor triumphantly takes another bite of his own eggs, smirking ear to ear.

Nora sighs softly. “Well, hurt egos aside, I still have one more ask for you and then I’ll leave you alone. It’s somewhat a big one.”

“..What is it?” Pentious glances back at her, sensing some of the more serious tones in her voice.

Alastor glances between them and looks up at Nora, swallowing his egg as the mood creeps onto him, ears perking as he stays quiet.

She leans on the island a touch, tapping the surface with a claw. “I was looking back on my research of magic given the events and I remembered that, given Lucifer is a fallen angel, his magic is somewhat more... advanced than demons’ magic. And while it’s possible he didn’t do anything _so_ impactful, he might have used _soul_ magic. Now-”

“Ah.” Alastor physically leans away from her, one eye wrinkling as his smile strains itself. “No. _No, thank you._ Not gonna happen.”

“Alastor.” Nora puts a hand up as he tries to continue talking. “You have to know that _if_ he did anything to your soul, the only time to even _try_ to remedy that damage is _now.”_

Pentious glances up at that, staring toward Alastor for a moment, feeling his blood chill a touch ever so slightly at the realization. He moves to put down his plate, not caring about the food anymore, affixing the man with a soft but firm glare. “Alastor, if this is as serious as it sounds, you need to let Nora do her work. I don’t need you getting knocked back into decommission again.”

“I’m not-” He cuts himself off, static filling his voice, and takes a deep breath, looking down at his plate, mind traveling a mile a minute. “Exposing one’s soul is _incredibly_ risky and not to be done frivolously, and you’re wanting to...?” He squints up at Nora, skeptical and slightly panicked. “What? The equivalent of open heart surgery?”

She raises her hands placatingly. “At _most_ simply take a look. Nothing more. I just want to make sure everything is alright.”

Pentious stays silent at that, watching Alastor steadily, able to see the slight panic, the lingering fear within his eyes. It was disturbing to say the least, to see him like that, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Nora waits a few second, keeping eye contact as Alastor doesn’t look away. “You’ll have control over the entire process. You can stop whenever you want. All I need is ten seconds. And then it’s over, you never have to do it again.”

Alastor presses his lips together, smiling thinly, and looks away from her, staring down at the island surface.

“...Alastor. Please.” Pentious’s voice is not quite soft, not exactly quiet, but it’s somehow more subdued than Alastor had ever heard from him.

He glances at him, eyes somewhat wider at the sound of his voice. He does nothing for a long moment, stuck in indecision and paranoia, hemmed in. Nora’s right, and he knows it, but the simple thought of showing his soul to anyone else is... He suppresses a shiver and takes a deep breath. The tension of inevitability. Impossible to best.

Alastor leans back, barely feeling his muscles carry through the movements, and stares at his eggs as he brings his hand up in front of his chest, as if he were cupping something just a few inches in front of himself. A low, red haze fills his hand, coalescing into a palm-sized sphere of red and black that floats up, just below his collar bone. Twelve orbs develop around it, barely the width of his thumb, followed by another set of twelve that surround them concentrically. There’s a flicker and a brighter, almost neon red fills them all, perfect rubies. Then another flicker, fracture lines of black breaking out across all of them, the centerpiece chipped and missing sections, some of the outer ring floating along like a broken moon around a planet. A faint shadow crosses over the entire structure, three claw marks scratched across his very soul.

He says nothing and merely waits.

Pentious can’t help but let his eyes widen at the sight, the scars, the cracks, the pieces where it looked as if his very essence was a ball of diamond that had a hammer taken to it. It was almost exactly like that sketch Nora had made of it, almost completely identical, and yet somehow, it remained even more gruesome than any kind of drawing could even hope to replicate. He feels his tail tighten, feels a soft chill run down his spine, and once more, he couldn’t help but wonder what exact had happened to cause this amount of damage. He was starting to get the feeling it wasn’t self inflicted.

Even Nora, who had seen the damage already, can help but stare in shock, as if she had been hoping that her eyes had failed her, that it had been some kind of trick. Perhaps some part of her had been expecting it to be the workings of some elaborate anti-soul-scrying charm for some kind of gory prank. She swallows roughly, the rest of her expression blank as she takes it all in.

“It looks a lot worse than it feels, I must say.” Alastor’s voice is just as cheerful as always, eyes closed and smile wide, as if he hadn’t been close to losing it for the first time in decades. He chuckles quietly. “You should have seen the other guy.”

“...Ssssomeone did this to you?” Pentious couldn’t quite keep the horror out of his voice this time.

His eyes flutter open, catching sight of Pentious’s expression, and he shrugs lightly. “I wouldn’t do it to myself, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You should be dead.” Nora slowly clasps her hands together. “With everything that I know, you should not be able to function. May I ask how - how long ago...?”

He watches her for a moment. “Twenty to thirty years.”

Twenty to thirty years. That would roughly place him around 1931 or 1941. Pentious can’t help but stare down at his soul, the gruesome scars that taint it, the sickly crimson light that ebbs from it’s center, and he can feel his own soul, the imprint of it, aching, within his chest, as if it had been struck. Somehow the weight of that monocle in his breast pocket seems to grow even heavier, and after a moment of silence, he lets his eyes flick away. He had the feeling Alastor didn’t want him staring. “...You do not need to discuss it if you wish not to.”

“I’d prefer not to get into the details.” He slowly looks down, looks for the first time at what the others are seeing, and he doesn’t cringe. “Oh, it’s a lot better than I expected.”

“A lot better,” Nora echoes. “I... I can’t even tell what’s old from what’s new, if there even is anything.”

“Hm. Just a few hairline fractures. No magic for a week.” He lowers his hand and the orbs vanish into shadows. Alastor picks up his fork and continues eating.

“..How..” Pentious can’t help but let his tail lash a touch, irked by his own tongue speaking before he could process it, before he finally sighs and glances back toward him. “..How can you live like that? With...With that ssssort of damage?”

“I’ve always been good at improvisation.” He shrugs, poking at his eggs as he talks. “My two options were to adjust, or die, and I’m not precisely the type to go down easily. And, well....” He looks sheepish again. “I admittedly _did_ nearly die in the Extermination the following year, but...” He waves a hand, searching for the right words. “Imagine my surprise when the angels stalking me met a rather gruesome fate at the hands of the Whip Wraith.”

Nora seems to blink at that, as does Pentious, and they both exchange glances for a moment, before Nora let’s out a soft, almost nervous chuckle, shaking her head softly. “Well...I’m glad I could help, then.” She lets out a sigh, a hand slowly sliding itself down the length of her beak. “..Alright, well...I think it’s safe to say that magic is absolutely off limits for at least a week. Maybe two. God knows how much of a limit you already pushed on yourself simply from recovering improperly.”

“I know how to handle this better than anyone else here.” He raises a brow at her with a slight smirk. “You have nothing to worry about, I promise.”

“Considering the amount of times you ended up passing out on me or being covered in blood in my presence, somehow I doubt that statement.” She gives him a bit of a glance at that, before she begins to dig through the satchel slung around her shoulder. “Let me get that aspirin for you...No...No...Ah, here we are.” She pulls out a large ceramic bottle and pops off the cork, shaking it in her hand before a single white tablet spills out, and she moves to hand it over. “Take this. And don’t swallow it dry. That’s how you burn holes in your esophagus.”

“Really? Huh.” He takes the pill, holding it in his palm before standing up, rounding the island for the fridge. “And I swear, that’s only happened because of snapback, which, well, I am more susceptible to, but still.” He pulls out the milk and pours himself a cup. “And being exposed to high amounts of magic, but that’s beyond the point.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Your soul isn’t so much of a glass house as it is the _frame_ of a glass house that’s made up of shards, popsicle sticks and scotch tape.” Nora pops the cork back into her bottle and tucks it back into her satchel. “It’s probably one of the most damaged souls I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, _thank you.”_ He gives her a toothy smile and drinks down the pill. “I worked very hard on putting that tape in place, just so you know.”

“I’m sure you have.” She flashes him an equally toothy grin. “Just as I’m sure you worked very hard to become a sarcastic ass.”

“I did actually, and I got _paid_ for it. Can you believe that? People actually paying to hear another person’s sarcasm? Hilarious.” He takes another sip of milk, smiling widely all the while.

“Alright, alright, that’ssss enough of a proverbial tongue lashing from both of you.” A bit of a grin slips back onto Pentious’s face, and he let’s out a chuckle. 

Nora snickers slightly to herself. “Tongue lashing?”

“You shush.”

“I think I might have actually heard that one before.” Alastor walks back around the island and slips into his seat. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat, Nora? I could always make more eggs or whatever you want.”

“Not much of a fan of eggs, believe it or not. Never have been in life, and, to be frank, well...” She trails off before tapping her beak with a claw, cracking a toothy smile. “I don’t want to make my life in Hell anymore complicated by being a cannibal.”

Alastor shrugs. “More for us then. Anything else on your plans for the day? Are you seeing Niffty later?”

“Indeed. I’ll be sure to swing by to tell her that you’re safe.” She gives him a bit more of a stern look this time. “Please do be careful to not scare her like that again. She’s worried about you.”

“Hopefully there won’t need to be an again.” He waves it off, then softens a little. “Give her my apologies. I hadn’t intended on being out for so long.”

“Of course. Anything else you want me to tell her?”

“Hm.” He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, I think that’d be all.”

“Very well, then.” She nods softly, before glancing at Pentious, smirking now. “How have my little angels been?”

Pentious’s gaze immediately sours, and his tongue flicks out in visible distaste. “Grotessssque and annoying abominations as always.”

“Oh, one day you’ll learn to love them.”

“I’d ssssooner eat my own hat.” 

Said hat offers up a soft huff, clearly insulted at the insinuation, and Pent moves to give it a soft pat. “I didn’t mean it, now hush.”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “You should know they stole all my clothes. And my shoes. I’d hardly call them angels.”

“Heheh. They always will be to me.” Nora flashes him another cheeky grin, before she moves to snap her satchel shut. “Well, if that’s everything, I best be off. Still have a lot of things to get done and all.”

“Mmhmm.” Alastor turns back to his food, starting to eat with a little more energy than before. “Don’t die.”

“Already dead, Alastor.” She chuckles a little as she moves to open the door and walk out. “Have been for centuries now.”

He rolls his eyes, simply scooping up another forkful of egg as he hears the door swing open and close behind her. The room becomes quiet, almost awkward, though he doesn’t let it get to him. He can feel Pentious’s eyes still on him, can all but hear the gears in his brain start to turn again. He picks up his glass and drinks more milk to add variety to the scene.

“...You won’t say who damaged your soul, will you?”

Alastor swallows and slowly sets his glass down, turning his head to face him. “No. I won’t. There’s no reason to, really. No point to it.”

“Why not?” Pentious was staring at him with arms crossed, his expression composed, almost eerily so. It was hard to tell what he was thinking now, those glowing magenta eyes all but concealing everything from sight. The most he could obtain was a slight furrow to his brow, almost like a glare but holding no malice.

He narrows his eyes on him, not sure what he’s trying to get at. “Because focusing on the past won’t change anything, and it really doesn’t matter at this point. More pressing is what I’m going to be doing this week with my magic on hold. Good thing I already gathered my radio.”

“...I could help.” His tail flicks softly. “I could try and fix it.”

Alastor blinks at him. “Fix it?” He turns the rest of his body toward him. “I understand that, as a scientist, when you see a problem, you want to fix it. But you can’t. I’ve gone down that route and it got me nowhere. Hell, it probably even set me back!” He laughs a little. “Tinkering with souls isn’t like tinkering with mechanics, Pentious.”

“I’m well aware, Alasssstor. But I’m serious.” His brow furrows a bit more. “You forget that Nora and I have both been researching magic and how it correlates to souls for centuriessss. If we put our heads together, we could very well find ssssomething to aid in your soul healing itself. It’s certainly not going to get better on it’s own, that much I know, and it looks as if it’s only going to get worse the more you try to pretend it isn’t broken.”

Alastor straightens in his seat, blinking for a moment, before letting out a sour laugh and smirking, almost more at himself than at Pentious. “Broken? You seem to misunderstand the situation _poorly,_ Sir Pentious. Neither I nor my soul are _broken,_ and I despise the insinuation that I’m _pretending_ about any of that. I’m not in need of help, nor am I asking for it, from either you or Nora or even Niffty.” He stands up, holding his gaze for a moment. “I’ll be outside examining your garden if you need me.”

Pentious’s eyes widen slightly at that, showing off a hint of shock, perhaps surprise, but then, after a moment, his gaze hardens, turning steely, and the rattle of his hood comes off as slightly more ominous. “...That would be bessssst.”

Alastor lets out a sigh, holding his gaze, not perturbed at all, and silently walks past him, all too disappointed by the turn in conversation. This had been going so well, but... _Broken._ He can feel his blood boiling at the idea. Shows him for expecting something better.

Pentious waits a few precious seconds for Alastor’s shoes to fade from his hearing range before he lets out a soft scoff, a haughty sound of derision and scorn. “Feh. Lassst time I offer help to the likes of _him.”_ The tip of his tail lashes across the floor for a moment, and his eyes trail down toward the floor. He couldn’t get that picture of his soul out of his mind. It looked so torn, so mangled, marred beyond belief. To think that there was anything out there that could cause such irreparable damage....

His hand slowly drifts to the center of his chest, resting there for a moment. His eyes narrow softly, deep in thought. Perhaps, just perhaps, Alastor needed a refresher on who exactly he was dealing with. Who had him under control, and what that would mean.

•••

The garden is infuriatingly perfect. There’s parsley, dill, basil, sage, rosemary, thyme, the expected patch of mint. Irregular, flat stones sit amongst gravel and pebbles to mark walkways, surrounded by hellroses and daffodils and ramsons. There’s even a little pond with lily pads and lotuses off to one side, and a massive tree in the middle providing extra shade to the lot. Ivy climbs up one side of a metal fence. It’s an idyllic place, entirely contrary to everything Hell stands for.

And Alastor loves it.

He plops down beside a group of pepper and tomato plants, deep enough in the garden to not be easily spotted, and plucks a few of the ripe habaneros from their stems. He pops an entire pepper in his mouth to feel the burn, to try and distract himself from his own thoughts.

 _Broken._ Why did that hurt so much? Why did he even care? He shouldn’t. He absolutely should not. It goes against his entire way of thinking. Goes against merely batting away every piece of anger and resentment with a large smile and a witty quip like he always has. And this time it wasn’t even resentment to begin with! It was merely one man insulting him under the guise of trying to help him and somehow _that_ stung worse than anything else! Pentious was just one man, and suddenly one comment from him is enough to render him like _this?_

“Hmm.” He tosses another pepper into his mouth. Maybe he can simply pretend like they hadn’t had any kind of fight and walk right back inside and cook muffins for the rest of the day. Maybe Pentious would cool down within an hour, and he could do that.

The scathing, venomous look Pentious had given him flashes in front of him like a punch to the gut and he groans in annoyance, letting himself tilt and fall onto his side, cheek smushed against grass. “Why do people have to be so _annoying?”_

A chipper, if not completely annoying, voice chirps up right behind him. “Beats me. I dunno why but 43 really gets on my case sometimes about mopping the floors.”

Alastor’s ears perk and he manages to hold back a few choice swears, darting upright again and twirling around to face the egg. He shifts back, toward the pepper plants, as he notices how close it is; he hadn’t thought they could be anything close to quiet before. His eyes narrow as he spots a box hidden behind them. “What do you want?”

“Oh, uh..” The egg, marked with 35, on it’s back, moves to present the box to him. It was little more than a simple cardboard box wrapped up in a bright red bow that looked to be rather messily cut at the edges, as if they had struggled to remove it from the spool. “I kinda realized I made a mistake earlier. With your room. Thought I’d might, uh...apologize?”

Alastor slowly reaches to take the box. “You were the one who took my clothes?” He glances at the ribbon. It’s... at least an indication of effort. He tugs at one of the ends and lets it come undone, peeking inside to see his shirt, jacket, and pants neatly folded, not a spot of damage to them.

“Yeah.” The egg nods a touch, hands folding behind its back. “The boss tells us constantly to always clean and re-clean the guest rooms, and that includes the clothes. I, uh, mistook it for one of the spare ones he stores in those rooms.”

“Hmm.” He pulls his jacket out, unfolding it and looking over the seams, glancing at the charms along the inside to make sure nothing had undone Rosie’s seamstress’ work. He glances back at the egg and sighs, lowering his arms. “Thank you. It... honestly means a lot to me.”

“No problem!” The egg’s odd misshapen mouth twists up into a grin. “Though it was kinda funny to hear about you smashing 26 in the kitchen.”

“Oh, a fan of murder, I see.” He chuckles at that. “If you want, I could tell you more about it, if you bring me some coffee from the kitchen.”

“Oh, uh, sure!” The little thing almost seems to perk up at that, turning to start running off back down the path toward the mansion.

“Hm.” Alastor watches as the egg takes off, an ear twitching as he inevitably finds himself staring at the back of the mansion. The idea of walking back in there makes him feel all too tired, the unknowns awaiting him less entertaining than simply stressful. He exhales and slips his jacket on, over the ruffled, victorian dress shirt, and buttons it up. What to do, what to do....

His eyes flick over toward the black barred fence that stretches out over the whole of the garden, the tops lined with pointed arrows that look suspiciously like snake heads with extended fangs, and he narrows his eyes a bit. “Hmm...” He lets his eyes slide up and down the fence, up and down, up and down.

He shouldn’t. He _really_ shouldn’t. Running away from his problems would only make things worse, but... _“Hmm.”_ It’d be _so_ much easier than attempting an apology, or facing more questions, or _answering_ questions about his past or his magic or his soul. He’d honestly rather forget about it all, rather than dredge up the entire ordeal thirty years later. He snags a few more peppers from the plant beside him and tosses them into his box, quickly retying it and walking to the nearest section of fence.

He takes a moment to glance it over for any snags or footholds that he could make out of the bars, a hand against his chin, stepping up to the fence and moving to stick his hand between the bars, testing to see if he could slip it through, only to find he couldn’t, stopping just a few inches above the wrist. He retracts his hand, humming to himself once more before he moves to toss the box over the fence, watching as it clears the gap and lands on the grass on the other side. He stares for a moment. “So this is where the afterlife takes me. Climbing fences to get _out_ of an aristocrat’s home.” He stretches up toward the top of the fence, toward the bar just under the serpentine arrows, and hops, just barely able to grab on. He pulls himself up, awkwardly shifting his hands around. “Don’t pike yourself on your boss’s fence, Alastor. Don’t...” He swings a leg up, managing to catch his heel on the barest edge of the fence.

“Ok...Ok...” He grits his teeth a bit as he slowly drags himself closer to those points, those sharp, wicked looking points, and he can’t help but clench onto what little grip he has even harder. He takes one breath, two, and quickly as he can, wrenches himself up over the points as quickly as possible, crashing down onto the gras below with a solid _thud,_ and he takes a moment to cough, to wheeze to himself, the impact all but knocking the wind out of him.

“Well. That could have gone worse.” He lays there for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then pushes himself upright and brushes himself off, picking up his box and turning toward the glow of the city. “Okay. Now, to walk. Boy, that looks far.”

He glances back over his shoulder, the garden and all of it’s perfection practically undisturbed, and he lets out a sigh. “..Sorry to take my leave so suddenly, dear. But I’m afraid I’ve had enough of your hospitality for one evening.” He turns back around, and begins to walk, ignoring the idle, almost stinging pain within his spine, knowing that it would heal itself up soon enough.

He still didn’t feel any better.

•••

Inside the mansion, on the second floor, Pentious sits in front of his desk, inside his office, staring at a mess of paperwork that needs either his signature or fixing. In one hand he holds a pen, in the other, Alastor’s monocle, and he can still feel a headache dully throbbing in the back of his head. He doesn’t know what to do when it comes to this very strange man and his unreadable emotional turns. He had cooled off quite a bit, had rethought the exchange, and he could admit, perhaps, that he could have worded things differently. But that didn’t change the fact that he so clearly wanted to _help_ and Alastor had blatantly and coldly _refused_ the offer. The best aid in all of Hell, and he bats it aside like a petulant child!

A knock comes at the door. “Sir? It’s 35.”

Pentious feels an eye twitch but thankfully restrains from clenching his fist and accidentally breaking the glass, moving to tuck the monocle back into his breast pocket again with a sigh. “What isssss it?”

The door slides open and the egg walks in, holding a coffee mug that seems to have gone cold. “I, erm, I’m looking for your guest. Have you seen him around? He wanted coffee, but I can’t find him.”

Pentious can’t help but raise a brow ever so slightly, idly wondering if his minions really were that incompetent. “He’ssss in the garden.”

“That’s what I thought!” He walks a few steps closer, expression twisting into worry. “I left him near the peppers, but he wasn’t there when I went out. I look around, but he wasn’t in the garden, and I just went through all the rooms in the mansion, and he’s... nowhere.” 

_“...What?”_ He feels his blood chill ever so slightly, feels his heart pick up a touch in his chest, and he moves to stand from his desk. “What do you _mean_ he’s _nowhere?”_

“I checked all the rooms, and under all the beds, and I can’t find him anywhere.” 35 frowns at him. “I thought he’d be with you, maybe you two were making up.”

“I-He-“ He can’t help but feel a hiss starting to build up in the back of his throat, eyes narrowing a touch, and he moves to all but barrel past the egg. “Move it!”

35 stumbles aside, narrowly keeping from dropping his mug, and then follows after Pentious as he makes it out of the room. “I checked all the hidden passages too, Sir. I don’t know where he can be.”

“Check them _again,_ then! Check them as many timesss as you need to!” Pentious casts a glare back down at 35, steely and like ice, before he moves to bend around a corner, heading right toward the garden as quickly as his coils could allow, teeth gritted.

He makes it down the stairs and into the dining hall in minutes, moving around the table to push the French doors open. A couple of eggs are chatting near the roses, but other than that, he sees no one. Nothing moving, no tuft of red hair, nothing. But the garden _is_ rather large, and there is at least _one_ spot the eggs can’t reach. He makes a bee-line for the tree.

“Alassstor! _Alastor!”_ He calls out for him, and he hears no sudden increase in static or radio feedback. No sudden flash of brown teeth or the barking of a loud and chipper voice to greet him from up above. He places a hand on the bark, letting his head crane back in an effort to see anything, in an effort to catch a glimpse of white or red amongst the dark, blackened leaves, but he sees nothing. His tongue flicks out, able to taste the dirt, the soil, the bark, the leaves, the thousands of other plants within the garden itself. But no body heat, no beating heart beat that wasn’t some lukewarm egg ridden facsimile of one. He feels himself hiss even harder, pulling away from the tree, letting his tongue flick out, again, again, trying to detect even the slightest drop of his scent.

Somewhere amidst all the pungent scents of the garden comes something a bit more manufactured. Shampoo? The man _had_ taken a shower earlier. He slithers toward the scent, recalling 35’s note on peppers, and glances around hurriedly. The smell of shampoo grows until he’s _certain_ Alastor had been in the exact spot he’s standing in. The grass is somewhat flattened, like he had sat down for a period of time, and he leans further down, managing to spot a slight trail in the grass, leading away, toward....

He stops in front of the fence.

He feels his heart stop in his chest for a moment, jolting. His tongue retracts back into his mouth for a moment. “...No...No he didn’t..” He slowly slithers closer around the fence, his tongue sliding back out to taste the air, again, again, yet again, almost to the point where his snout is almost scant inches away from the bars, tongue flicking through the small gap, tasting the outside air. 

He could still smell it. Smell the shampoo, the heat of his body, the smell of blood and brimstone. 

He can feel his hood flare up against the back of his neck. His claws slowly curl around the bar, and the metal start to sizzle. 

“That _ssssscheming...inssssolent...BASTARD!”_


End file.
